Sydney: Season Four
by CRebel
Summary: Months after the arrival of the people of Woodbury - including someone the Dixons believed to be dead - Sydney continues to struggle with events of the past, as well as present dangers and difficulties and the ever-uncertain future.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I own no part of _The Walking Dead._**

**. . . . .**

**Prologue**

The scars stack up along my arm. They cover more and more of my skin as the winter goes on. But I won't stop making more. These scars, these brands, they belong on me. I _am_ scarred, I _am _branded, and the world – so small and terrible – should know it. It should know what it's turned me into, it should know it's lost me . . . Or found me. Yeah. This world, as it is now, it's found me, and it has me right where it wants me tonight, here on the floor of the boiler room, bringing my scars and brands from the inside out, alone. No, not alone. Never alone. My thoughts, my memories, they're like a second person. Or more than one, even. Lots and lots, sometimes. People I knew. Like Dale, I can hear him gasping. And there's Andrea whispering that low whisper that means it's done. And Sophia cries, and Lori screams, and T-Dog shouts, and the boiler room is filled with it all tonight, isn't it? It's filled with the echoes of their lost voices.

One voice is louder than the others, though. It always is.

_"You know I love that little girl, Daryl, you know I do."_

My dad's lighter, stolen, is in my right hand and it makes a flame that lights up the room, but only in the most basic way. In other ways, I think, it makes it darker, which is right. And now, in my other hand, my best knife.

_ "The little girl I knew would never, no matter what, try to spill her uncle's guts all over the floor . . ."_

That flame, it plays along my knife's edge, and it's such a good flame, but it's an even better knife, really. The knife is sharp when I need it to be sharp and metal when I need it to be metal. Sharp slices and metal heats. Sometimes I need the blood and sometimes I need the burn. Such a good knife, to do it all for me.

"_. . . So maybe you should take a good long look in the mirror before you go tellin' me just how far from grace I've fallen."_

I never look into mirrors. The others have some. I just never look into them. I don't want to see. And I don't have to. I know now. I know now.

It's ready, the knife. It never takes long to get ready. Down with the lighter, up with my sleeve. Always long sleeves now. Because for the others to see, for my dad to see –

He shouldn't care, but he would. And I won't hurt him anymore. Him or – or any of them.

Except for _her_. I wouldn't mind hurting her. But I can't let myself believe she's worth it.

_Shh, Uncle Merle. Shh, Lori, Andrea, all of you. I'm about to do it. See? Do you see?_

No. Because you're all dead.

There's the stack on my arm and here's the knife and I place it and press it, and _oh_, and my head falls back and I let it happen, I let the burning flood through me, reaching all over. It's not good. It doesn't take the guilt away. It doesn't stop my thoughts that are people. But that's how it should be. I am a murderer and this is my punishment. Voices and scars and darkness. Blood and burns. Me, Sydney Rose Dixon? That's all I am now. This is all I am. This is how I will die.

Sooner than later.


	2. Better

**FOUR MONTHS LATER**

I wake up before the sun does, and, with any luck, before everyone else, too. I like my early morning hour to be nice and private. Peaceful, in its own way. My way.

I untangle myself from the blankets – they're damp with sweat, but whatever nightmares I had last night I've forgotten – and lower myself onto the towel on my floor. Twenty-five pushups, twenty-five crunches. Then I take today's overshirt from my top bunk. It's the blue-black plaid one, my favorite, with a light fabric that doesn't make me bake inside of it. I still get hot, though, and it's only going to get worse once summer goes into full swing. But I can't complain. It's my own choice to keep wearing the long sleeves.

On with the shirt, over the tank top I'm already in, then I slip into socks, two pairs, because my boots are a size or two too big. They're pretty new, these boots, my dad found them in a store about three months ago. I've only gotten up to wearing them in the past month, though, because they're black leather with studs and my uncle had some just like them. Before.

I take my Buck knife from the top of _Animal Farm,_ which rests on the upside-down plastic bin serving as my bedside table. My belt is looped around my bedpost. I put it on and then tuck my revolver into it. The folding chair by the doorway holds my vest. I swing it around onto me and reach into the inside pocket, where I feel my all-too familiar pocket knife. Left on the chair are my sunglasses, mirrored aviators. I hook them onto the neck of my shirt.

Then there's my bow. It's propped on the wall next to my bed, loaded with an arrow, accompanied by a quiver full of nine more. My release trigger is strapped to my wrist already – I sleep with it there, always. I put the quiver over my back, shoulder the bow, and grab my little portable stereo from the floor as I leave.

The cell block is sleeping. Someone's snoring. It's dark, but I more than know my way, and then it's through the dining room and outside, where some kind of pressure lets up and I can breathe easier. I rarely feel like I can't breathe inside, not lately, but there's still always something less thick about the world when I step outside on my mornings. Some things never change. I'm still an outdoors kind of person, and there's something comforting in knowing that.

Like I said, it's pretty dark – old-world time, I'd say it's not six a.m. yet – but there's the barest glow from the eastern horizon, a golden hair set down on the trees. But the stars are still up, and as my boots touch asphalt, I look at them. I like the morning stars. They seem brighter than the evening ones. I spy the Big Dipper and give it a nod.

I move past the eating pavilion, with the picnic tables I cleared last night, and under the laundry line full of clothes I helped wash. I move across the courtyard, to the gate leading out of it, and onto the gravel that crunches faithfully beneath my feet. I don't move to the crops, I don't move to the stable. My place is in the far right corner, behind the last patch of a crop field, so there is where I move to.

Walkers growl at me from all the edges. I wonder what they do at night, when we're all asleep. If a walker snarls at a prison, and no one's around to hear it, does it make a sound?

There's always someone around to hear it, though. We keep guards on duty. We run a tight ship around here. At least in some ways. We can thank the _Council_ for that. And my dad, one of the members. One of the head members, I'd say.

Hm.

I near the corner, near the walkers. More importantly, I near the big black bulky thing waiting for me, always patiently waiting, as constant as anything in my life. I reach it, grip the plastic tarp, and yank. Morning dew pools together and wets my hand as the covering pulls off the fraying hay bale, one of those giant round ones, and it's seen better days, my hay bale, but the side's still held together pretty well. There are three red circles of spray paint decorating that side – one big one, one smaller than that and inside the first, and one that's the smallest of all, that's filled in with color, the bullseye.

I turn and walk forty paces back. There aren't as many walkers over here as there are on the other side of the yard, where the build-ups usually happen, but there are some. The fence rattles and rattles away, as loud as the growls and moans, so I stamp some grass down and settle my stereo on the ground. I stand up straight and eye the walkers as I pull my hair back and into a ponytail. I always look at them at this point, at least for a minute, and I don't know why. They all look the same, really. Hungry. Stupid. Dead.

Mostly dead.

It's private out here. No one's going to see. So I go ahead and take off my vest and then my overshirt, and my pale forearms seem to have a light of their own, don't they? A light ripped and dimmed here and there. And there and there and there. And so on.

Between the moon, the stars, the sky's brightening glow, and my eyes' long-practiced ability to adjust to dim lighting, I can see well enough for this. But hell. My bow is melding so well into my hand now, into my whole body and my whole _me_, that I feel like I could do this in the pitch black. Yeah, I bet I could.

I switch on the radio with the toe of my boot. The beat starts, hard and perfect. I want it louder but I know better. I tilt up my chin as a warm breeze comes and I let my feet carry me a bit over. They position themselves. My arms come up with my bow, my release traps the string and pulls it back, and the arrow nears my face and then runs from it, flies from it, until it _thwumps _into the hay bale. Into the bullseye.

"_Back in black," _sings Brian Johnson. _"I hit the sack . . . It's been too long, I'm glad to be back."_

And I guess I am.

. . . . .

Most days, Rick's the first person I see. I'll turn around from getting back my arrows and there he'll be, coming down from the courtyard. Most days, like today, he's there right after the sun rises. I raise my hand and he raises his back. We're the morning people, Rick and me. We even have my dad beat. And we'll always spend the dawn together, in a way, with rock bands and dead people singing along to our lives.

When I start to sweat, I know it's time to stop. The group has a better level of hygiene management than it's ever had before, but water is still limited, and I don't want to be disgusting right as the day starts. This rule of mine is more irritating now than it was in the late winter months, when I started this morning ritual, because I get damper sooner nowadays. I don't want to stop shooting today. I'm not ready to stop, it's too nice being out here, too nice seeing my arrows wearing out the inner circles on the hay bale. Too nice feeling focused and right and in place. So I take a break, shoot some more, take a break. But the sun's up and awake now, fully, and its heat bears down on me, and I know I can't let myself start up again. So I finish off nice – a standing bullseye first, then what my dad calls a _combat roll _forward and something so close it might as well be a bullseye, and finally, on impulse, I move up, sliding my buck knife out, and when I'm close but not too close I throw just like my dad taught me to, so long ago in Atlanta, but I've only recently finally taken the time to actually practice it the way I should and so the knife hits, it hits right above the bullseye. Near enough. The walker'd be down and that's all that matters.

I gather my arrows, let them rest in my quiver. They've earned it. My knife goes back to my waist and I arrange the tarp over the hay bale again. I turn off my stereo next, and it's the saddest part, because batteries don't grow on trees and therefore I'm only allowed to listen to my music in the mornings, out here. Sometimes I cheat, tucked away in one of my hiding places, but only sometimes. I'm trying to get better about it. I'm trying to get better about a lot of things.

I pull on my overshirt. Make myself roll the sleeves all the way down. Then the vest with the pocket knife.

"Shoot alright?" Rick asks when I pass him and one of his crop fields.

"Good enough. How's the farmer's life?"

"Good enough," he says without looking up from his soil and the hoe he's digging into it. He gets focused on his work, too, Rick. Or, maybe, it just lets him focus on other things. Sometimes I think that's what shooting does for me, really, when I let it.

But then again, Rick doesn't have much to focus on these days, other than farming. The Council does most of the focusing.

When I reach the gate, I begin to feel the energy from inside the courtyard. The life. Something changes when I leave the walkers and go back to the land of the living, when it's gotten to the point in the day when it's waking up and bustling and fixing things and moving forward. And some days I'm not sure I like the change so much. But I'm getting better at that, too. And today, today things are off to a good start, because at the gate, at the gate I meet Carl.

He's much taller than me now, compared to how we used to be. He's always had the height advantage, but over the past few months, I'm pretty sure he's grown two inches for every one I have. He looks older in the face, too – the baby weight's on its way out, same as mine, which is good. It's a part of a whole different place.

He smiles at me, that little half-smile that always tugs at my own lips. "Hey."

"Hey." I rest on the fence, back-first. I used to rest on it so my arm would be against the chain-link and that chain-link would dig into my skin, but that's one of the things I don't do anymore. "Sleep okay?" I ask, but I cut him off as soon as he opens his mouth. "Oh, wait. You don't sleep anymore. You read comic books now. 'Cause, you know. That's what all the cool kids do."

"No, all the cool kids read poetry by Edgar Allen Poe."

I grin. Then I jerk my head behind me. "They up?" I say, even though I can hear their voices and, maybe, smell something cooking already.

"Yeah, some of them."

"LC?"

"Didn't see her."

"Did you look?"

"No."

I sigh. My hand goes to my wrist, but there's nothing there. Shit. Forgot my rubber band. Every other damn thing I put on like I was a freaking robot, but I forgot the rubber band?

"Syd, you can't avoid her forever."

"She faked her own death to get rid of her kid, so I think I can." I take my sunglasses from my shirt and slip them on. I want my ball cap, but Dad banned me from having the glasses and the hat on at the same time. He thinks I'm hiding, and he's right. He thinks it's not healthy, and he's probably right about that, too, but I don't care as much as he does about –

But I'm supposed to. I'm supposed to now.

Carl's holding something out to me. "Here."

A rubber band is dangling from his fingers. I don't ask why he has it, because I'm pretty sure there's only one reason he would, and it makes me warm inside in a way that feels nice, but too nice to be normal, and things that aren't normal are generally a little too much for me. But I do give him a smile. "Good man." And I slide the rubber band onto my wrist, snap it once, then nod at the field, at Rick. "Go be a good son."

He backs away but nods into the courtyard. "Go be a good daughter." Then he realizes what he's said and hesitates, watching over my shoulder. "To your dad, I mean."

I know what he meant. "He's the only parent I have."

The pavilion isn't very crowded. I walk towards it fast, head down, hands in my vest pockets. I scan the heads. None of them have thick brown hair, so it's safe. Safe enough. And Carol's here already, of course. I've never asked her, but she must get up around the same time as Rick does, to have breakfast on so early every morning. Even with helpers – sometime Beth, lately Patrick – it's a lot of work.

As soon as I walk up to the table she's behind and get out a hello, she slides me a bowl of meat in some sauce. Carol's become an expert in simple sauces, probably because dousing things in different sauces is kind of the only way we have to keep from going crazy from the same basic meals day in and day out, and there's enough craziness in this place to begin with.

I tuck my stereo underneath the table and rub my eyebrow with one hand while forcing my other to dip into the bowl. I'm back to eating three square meals a day now, but breakfast is still hard for me. Carol's eyeing me, though, so I chew like a good girl and swallow. "Coffee on somewhere?"

"Your dad says you're not supposed to drink coffee."

"My dad says so many things."

That makes her smile. "If you sneak some from Patrick behind my back, there's not much I can do about it."

So I go over to the next table, where Patrick – a boy a little older than Carl with glasses that make him look just as geeky as I'm pretty sure he is – seems to be rearranging the plastic plates and trays. I down the second bite of my meat and say, "Hey, man. Wanna be my new best friend?"

He drops one of the trays and it hits a stack and the whole thing comes crashing down. I get the feeling things like that happen to Patrick a lot. I point at the mess. "Not what I meant."

"Yeah, um, sorry . . ." His face goes red and he spends a few seconds bending down and standing upright again, evidently deciding whether or not to pick up the trays, before he finally wipes his palms on his jeans and looks at me. "What were you saying?"

I crouch down, ignoring the attention of the others, and pick up a few of the trays closest to me. "I was saying . . ." I hand him my collection and he shifts them from hand to hand. "Will you get me coffee?"

"Coffee? But Mr. Dixon said –"

I press my fingers into my eyes. "Please stop calling him that."

"Sorry. I – yeah. Okay. I'll get you, I'll get you some coffee."

"Thank you." I take the third bite of meat. Four more bites to go, and no nausea yet. I watch Patrick ladle what must be coffee from a big pot near the back of his table. He comes back, holding the mug out to me, carefully, because we wouldn't want me getting burned. I tell him thank you again and gesture at the trays still on the ground. "You can blame that on me if you want."

He laughs and stutters something, but his voice is drowned out by a cry of some garbled version of my name, and I barely have time to put my food and drink on the table before hands are grasping at me from below.

"Syddy!" repeats three-year-old Lacey, bouncing up and down and reaching for me like she didn't just see me twelve hours ago. I do my part, picking her up and letting her play with my hair and promising to come see the picture she drew later, but as soon as I set her down, Callie – she's . . . five? – runs over, halfway to tears, and tells me in a whisper that her twin brother Max stole a bite of her food, but she can't tell Carol because apparently Carol likes Max more than her, and I actually end up benefiting from this, because I let Callie sneak a bite from my own bowl. Then she's going back to her table, perfectly happy, and I rise to see Carol watching, raising her eyebrows. I make a face at her.

"Oh," she says, "It so hurts to be adored, doesn't it?"

"Didn't _ask _for it." What she doesn't understand is that I never planned to be the _adorable_ type. I started helping out with the kids because I was supposed to keep busy. And I like them, I do, but I never anticipated them liking me as much as some of them do. That's something I'm trying to adjust to.

Luckily, most of the older kids – other than Carl and Patrick – aren't too fond of me. So, really, it kind of evens out.

"Well, you're gonna have to be strong today. I'll need your help while your dad takes some of the others on that run."

I freeze. "What run?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"No."

She shrugs. "Well, you'll have to talk –" Her eyes catch on something behind me, and her voice has lowered a lot when she speaks next. "LC's coming."

I don't turn around. I just pick up my bowl and my mug, even though we're not really supposed to take them out of the pavilion. Carol doesn't get on to me. "I'll see you later," I mutter, and then I get the hell out of there.

Because Carl's wrong. I can avoid that woman as long as I want.

I go to my catwalk. It sees more traffic than it used to, but it still doesn't see a lot, especially not this early. I eat one more bite of the meat and put the bowl aside, but then I remember that I'm _supposed to be doing better_ and so I take up the stupid thing again and gobble the rest down, fast, so I don't have time to change my mind. I gag after, but everything stays down. I'm getting there. I'm getting there. I cup my coffee mug in my hands and watch below me, watch the walkers at the fence, watch Carl and Rick in the field, watch for my dad to show up. Because he's supposed to tell me these things, these things like when he's going on runs. I have to know that.

I know why he does it, though, why he keeps stuff like this from me. He knows I'll want to go. He knows that I know that I'm worth more, _capable _of more, than playing house and shooting arrows at hay bales – that's not who I am.

Me? I'm the girl who can't stay in the safe zone all the time. I'm the girl who has to get ready.

I'm the girl who's got a Governor to kill.

I raise the mug to my lips and chug down every last bit of the coffee Dad says I shouldn't have. He doesn't know everything. Not by a long shot.


	3. Always Have

"You shoulda told me about the run," I say right off, looking at Dad through my sunglasses. These sunglasses, they always make staring him down easier. Make talking in general easier, really. He's not even looking at me right now, though, he's looking at the ground, nodding to himself. Taking his time to think. Like the true leader he apparently is.

"Maybe," he admits after a minute, which kind of surprises me. After another, though, he adds, "But you ain't goin'," and that doesn't surprise me at all. Just kicks the sleeping bear inside of me.

"I should be," I say, trying to sound firm but calm all at once, and all in a whisper, too, because the others and the vehicles going on the run are right around the corner.

Dad's eyes snap to mine before he turns around, walks in a circle. Scanning. "Why?" he asks as he does. "So you can pocket some more cigarettes? A nice bottle of Jack Daniel's?"

That seeps into me, deep down into the center of my gut, and it ties itself all together in a knot and it hurts very badly. What's worse is that my head goes to a place just as bad, a very dark place full of flame and dead voices, and it's all I can do in that moment to force out, "That's not fair."

Dad's stopped, facing away from me. His crossbow's over his back and his fingers tap on it, then he says, "No, it ain't," and turns around, his face softer. Nicer. Hurray for him. "Look, I know you're better. A lot better. Thing is . . ." He comes back over here. "I want you to keep gettin' better."

And doesn't he know? Doesn't he understand how hard I'm trying?

He bends down a bit and slides the sunglasses that I like so much right off my face. "So just chill here for a while, alright? Least for my sake."

I snatch the glasses from his hand like my arm's part of a snare. "Thought I's s'posed to be keepin' busy?" I tell the wall. "Wasn't that the plan?"

"Yeah. Keep busy. Keep busy playin' soccer and hangin' out with the other kids, like a normal twelve-year-old."

"Oh my –" I shove off the wall. "Dad, that's not what I want to be doing! That's a waste of time!"

Cue grimace. I'm so good at making him grimace lately. "Sydney –"

Then there's a whistle, so faint it's almost odd that we both hear it – but that's how we talk when we're hunting, mostly, so I guess it makes sense, especially since when we're hunting is the only time it ever really feels like the old days, when talking to each other still came easily. And Dad, he shoots up straight, listening, and I listen, too, and then there's the deep rumble of the main gate opening. And there's only one person who the main gate would open for today, other than the people going on the run, and Dad, he knows that. So after a second and a sigh he says, "C'mon. You can ride down to the gate with me."

"But not farther," I say flatly.

He turns. "Nope."

I wouldn't go with him. I wouldn't. Except I want to get down there as soon as possible. So I follow my father around the corner, where my uncle's motorcycle and a couple vehicles and some people wait. I spot Glenn right away, then Tyreese, and Sasha, and –

And already in the passenger seat of Silver – _my _Silver – _her._

I have a hand on the motorcycle's handlebar by the time I take in her shape. My fingers constrict around the metal like a snake and my voice sounds like it belongs to one. "_She's _goin'?"

Dad doesn't ask who I mean. His lips are thin but his voice is gentle. "Can't not take her. She's too good of a fighter."

Well. He'd know all about how well she can fight, wouldn't he? But the fact that he's willing to be uncomfortable with _her_ being there – and he has to be – and he's bringing her along anyway because _she_ can fight really pisses me off. It's a double-standard and it's not fair, none of this is fair.

Dad leads out the two vehicles they're taking, of course, he always leads. The gate's opened for us and Dad steers the bike through it and down the gravel path, and there she is, Michonne, looking the same as always, safe and sound enough. Rick's next to her, Carl's behind her, holding the horse Michonne left on, but the most important thing is that it's _Michonne _and she's here and she's back and she might have –

My dad gets the motorcycle right up to her and Rick and then shuts it off. "Well, well," he says as the engine falls asleep, "Look who's back."

Michonne starts to talk, and I'm glad to see she's alright, I am, but some things are more important than pleasantries and so I blurt out, "You find him?"

The corners of her mouth were turned up, just a little, but now they fall as her eyes land on me. "No."

My hands find my knees and tighten on them. I feel Dad's exhale on my neck, but all he says is, "Glad to see you're in one piece." Then he presses his hand into my side, telling me to get off, but I don't, and so he goes to digging his thumb into my ribs instead. I shove his hand away and swing off the bike, glaring at him. He just shakes his head a little.

Meanwhile, "Thinkin' of lookin' over near Macon."

My head swings to Michonne. I don't know where Macon is, but if she thinks he could be there, she's gotta check it out. Or someone has to. My dad and Rick, though, they say nothing, and Michonne's face wrinkles up. "It's worth a shot."

"Yeah, it is," I agree. My fingers have found the rubber band at my wrist, _snap, _and I look at Dad, praying – no, just hoping – for him to agree, but he's already answering Michonne and I can tell by his tone that he doesn't. Of course he doesn't.

"Seventy miles of walkers. You might run into a few un-neighborly types . . . Is it?"

_Is it worth a shot? Is slaughtering that son of a bitch like the filthy animal he goddamn is worth a shot?_

I snort, loud enough for Dad to hear, before I turn and walk over to Carl and the horse. _Snap snap snap. _I pat the horse's neck and Dad tells Rick his plan. They're going to check out The Big Spot, some store, some huge store that may have the supplies we always, always need. Then Dad says someone needs to check the snares.

"I'll do it," I say over my shoulder.

"No," comes the reply. "Took you out to do it just a coupla days ago. Like I said earlier, want you to stay here today."

My hand drops from the horse's neck and I can't be around my dad anymore, because he's not even trying now. "This is bullshit," I mutter, only for Carl, as I take the horse's reins from him and tug the animal towards the stable. I hear the motorcycle start up when I'm halfway there. Good riddance.

No, I don't mean that –

But when I turn around the motorcycle and the cars are already a dust cloud. But they'll be back. They'll be back. It's okay to be angry, because they'll be back – _Dad _will be back – and we'll work it out. We always do.

Well. We always have, anyway. But then there was –

Rubber band, fingers. _Snap._


	4. Little Miss Perfect

I'm sitting on the ground with my back against the paddock fence when something bounces off my legs. I stop reading_, _see the soccer ball and, above it, Carl. "I didn't bring you out here so you could read," he says.

"Told you, I'm not good at soccer." Which is true. My athleticism ends with running and shooting things – and the _shooting things _part is questionable when it comes to guns.

Patrick runs up next to Carl, panting. He's running and panting and there are no walkers involved – still a new concept for me. When he's caught his breath, I hold up the book. "Boxer dies, doesn't he?"

Patrick read _Animal Farm _right before the walkers came, as a school assignment, so he'd know. But his eyebrows come together. "What? No."

He's trying too hard, though. "Damn it. I knew he would."

"What makes you say that?" he asks, much too airily. I should teach him how to play poker, give him some practice with lying.

"'Cause he's the nicest character." I slap the book closed. The cover is decorated with farm animals, and I find the horse and trace over his shape. "Of course he won't last."

Neither of the boys says anything, so I turn my head up to Carl, expecting him to be watching me warily like he does sometimes, but his eyes are off. I follow them, follow them to the other side of the field. There are other kids there, four of them, can't tell who from here, and they're standing right up by the fence with their backs to us. They're moving around and something's off.

I pull myself up as it dawns on me. "Are they waving?"

Carl looks at me.

He picks up the soccer ball and I pick up my book, and then we're walking over to them, the wavers, and Patrick's trailing behind us. When we get close, "Hi, Nick!" is the first thing I hear. That and giggles. _Giggles_, as the kids wave at all the dead people piling up on the fence. The dead people don't wave back. Walkers, they greet people by trying to eat them, and these walkers aren't special – they press against the fence and snarl through the wire, hands clinging and reaching and banging, their teeth chomping, gnashing, ready for a meal.

And the kids wave.

"Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me . . . Yo!" I bark – yeah, I bark, and I don't give a damn – at the four of them. They stop, turn around, smiles still on their happy little faces. My eyes lock onto Lizzie Samuels first. Her smile, at least, fades when she sees me. Good. I come to a stop in front of her. "What the hell?"

"You're _naming_ them?" Carl asks, and Lizzie's younger sister Mika steps forward.

"Well, one of them has a nametag, so . . . we thought all of 'em should."

There isn't a trace of guilt or defiance on her face. She's a sweet girl, Mika, I think. Better than her sister. Lizzie Samuels? She has a problem with me, always has, and I couldn't tell you why. All I know is that I've never been one for the _kill 'em with kindness _route, so Lizzie and me probably aren't going to get too friendly anytime soon. And definitely not today, since my face is already set in a scowl.

"They had names when they were _alive,"_ Carl explains, though he shouldn't need to; his tone gets that across, at least. "They're dead now."

Lizzie gives a little headshake. "No, they're not. They're just different."

And me, I laugh. "_Wow_ . . ."

She narrows her eyes.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Carl snaps. "Okay – they don't talk –"

"They don't think," I throw in.

"They _eat _people," says Carl.

And I finish with, "They _kill_ people."

"People kill people." Lizzie looks at me, right down her nose. "You should know that better than anyone."

A prickling sensation on the back of my neck. "Yeah? Why's that?"

"People talk. I've heard about your uncle, you know. What he did."

_Animal Farm _slips from my hand and I fill the space between Lizzie and me and get my face right up to hers, and I spit, "Okay, you little bitch –"

I'm pulled back by my arm as someone gasps, one of these stupid kids who seem to have been living under a freaking rock since the walkers came, and Patrick says _Hey now, hey now, _while Carl wrestles me behind him and I realize the only thing I want more than to leave is to kick Lizzie's teeth in, but I can't do that, I can't, I know I can't, so I walk, walk, wiping my hand over my mouth and breathing through clenched teeth, and it's warm but I'm shaking, shaking, so I pinch my rubber band and pull it back like I pull back on my bow and _snap _and there's the sting and it's not enough, it's not, but it'll have to do, won't it? Because I'm better. I'm much better.

Carl catches up to me halfway to my hay bale. He hands me _Animal Farm, _and I almost don't take it, because Boxer dies, but why the hell should death bother me anymore? I take the book and tuck in under my arm.

"She says she's gonna tell Carol."

"Good for her." I work at the rubber band, pull and release, _snap snap snap snap. _My skin stings, only _stings_.

"She's not like that when you're not there. She's actually pretty nice, I –" But then he heaves out a breath and moves in front of me, stopping me in my tracks. His hair's all shaggy these days and it blows over his face, same as mine does. "You okay?" he asks in his let's-stop-screwing-around voice.

"Yeah."

One of my _snaps _catches his attention. "You don't want to –"

"I'm fine! I –"

One more, one more _snap, _but different this time, and now my fingers find nothing but hot skin and I look down and the rubber band is at my feet, one long string now. I stomp it into the grass. "Damn it!" Then I press my hand into my eyes and find they're wet, and why, why is this happening? Why am I letting that little bitch – and she _is _a little bitch – get to me?

I'm not letting her get to me, though, am I? Just her words. Just everything about all the shit she doesn't know –

A touch on my arm. "Come on. Hey. Come on."

I drop my hand and his face is close, his eyes are serious. "Come on," he says again. "Lunch is over. No one'll be eating. Let's go find something. Okay?"

Food doesn't sound good right now. But I need to eat. I do. I can't slip –

– I've already slipped –

I can't slip more.

. . . . .

"You know, the other day, my dad told me I have to start being a better role model." I put a slice of canned peach into my mouth and swallow. That's one of the best things about peaches – chewing is not necessary. It's easier to sneak food past yourself. "He says the other kids'll look to me because he's on the Council."

He acts like he doesn't like it, being on the Council, like it's such a burden to him. I can't decide if I believe it. When he told me about _being a role model,_ I sure didn't.

Carl's sitting below me. He's on the bench of the picnic table and I'm sitting on the table itself, facing him. "Now you know how I felt."

"What, with me? It ain't – it's _not_ just you and me anymore." Peach, mouth, swallow. "And what, my dad wants me to be Little Miss Perfect so all the other kids'll fall in suit? How is it my job to make sure that happens?"

Carl's quiet. He wanted me to eat, but he's barely touched the meat on his plate. He's looking at the gate, and I remember that Rick ended up being the one to go check the snares. Carl'll be wondering about him, as safe as a job as that is. Rick doesn't carry his gun anymore.

I sigh and stab my fork through a peach. "Remember Atlanta?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I mean, remember how it was? Way early on? Before your dad showed up and got to be leader, and when I was still the redneck's daughter and no one wanted to talk to me?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Yeah, well, you were the exception . . ." I put the can of peaches aside and rest my elbows on my knees. The laundry's still hanging from the line. I should probably start getting it down. "I miss those days sometimes." My voice is low. "I know how stupid that sounds, and it's not like I want to go back to all that, but . . . Things weren't so . . . complicated."

He's quiet some more. I don't know what he thinks about when he thinks about Atlanta, not exactly, but I wish I did. And when he talks next, I lean forward because I hope he'll go into it, but what comes out of his mouth is, "Patrick likes you."

Which has nothing to do with anything. "I like him, too."

"No, he _likes _you. He told me so."

And, in spite of what's happened in the past hour, that draws a real, true chuckle out of me. "I thought I terrified him."

"Maybe a little." He eyes me. "What're you gonna do about it?"

I shrug. "Nothin'. He's too old for me."

"Yeah. I'll tell him that."

It seems kind of silly, I think, to talk about who likes who in a place like this, but I'm with Carl, so it's alright to be kind of silly. That's why I glance over my shoulder, see that the courtyard's still empty, and say, "Lizzie likes you."

"No, she doesn't."

"Yes, she does. I can tell." Something new comes to mind. "It's probably the reason she doesn't like _me_. 'Cause we hang out all the time and she doesn't see you as much."

"She was at my throat back there."

"She was at _my _throat." I nudge him with my boot. "Don't try anything with her, okay?"

"Why not?"

"'Cause it'd be stupid and I'd have to kick your ass."

"Doesn't sound like something Little Miss Perfect would do."

"Exactly . . . But you know what? Screw that. I already am perfect."

"Oh yeah, says who?"

"You know it's true, you jerk . . ." I lean down to push him but his hands lock with mine and push back, and he's stronger than me now and his hands are tight around mine so I can't get away, and I end up next to him on the bench, shoving my shoulder into him until he lets me go, and I'm laughing. He's laughing, too, but it's not as amazing, because he laughs more than he used to. At least since I started getting better.

I rest my forehead on his shoulder. "Thank you."

"For what?"

But the list is way too long, so I just say, "For wanting to talk to me."


	5. Lies

This evening, after Carl's abandoned me for comics and Storytime is underway, I finally remember Carol telling me she might need extra help with the kids, and so I retreat to Cell Block C – my good Cell Block C – and find Beth keeping busy in the dining area. The really little kids – Max, Callie, Lacey, Judith – are too young to make it through Storytime without getting distracted, so they end up here while it's going on, usually under Beth's supervision.

"Hey," I say to her when I get there, as she's shaking up one of Judith's bottles. "You need me?"

"If you could sit with them while they're coloring? Make sure Lacey doesn't eat the crayons."

So I settle in at the table they're using. It's littered with newspapers, paper plates, notebooks, whatever colorable junk we can dig up. Multiple crayon boxes are spread around, all with varying amounts of crayons actually inside. "Hey, Callie," I say, because she's the nearest, "What're you up to?"

"I'm coloring," she says, but she sounds distracted. She's scribbling away – so hard that strands of her blonde hair are waving around – at one of the six human-like figures on her paper. There are three big figures and three little figures. And then there's a dog. I tap my finger next to it.

"That your puppy?"

"Yeah. Her name was Cupcake."

"Her name was not _Cupcake_," Max says from across the table. "It was, it was Roscoe. Daddy said so."

"He did not."

"Maybe it was both names," I say. "People can have two names – Lacey, don't eat that."

Lacey lowers the red crayon and looks at me like I've crushed all of her dreams.

"Dogs can't have two names," mutters Max.

"Her name was Cupcake," Callie whispers to me. I nod a little and I guess she's satisfied with that, because now she's outlining the picture for me. "That's Mommy and Daddy. That's Aunt Melinda –"

Melinda's here. Callie's parents aren't. Neither is the older brother she identifies as Jason.

"That's Max and me . . . What's your, what's your brother's name?"

"I don't have a brother."

"Did he, um, did God ask him to please come back to heaven?"

Jesus, is that what Melinda's telling them? _God's really a nice guy, kids, I swear. _"No. I never had a brother – Lacey, _quit it."_

I hear Judith making her fussy noises, and I look over to see Beth bouncing her around while trying to keep the bottle in hand, and I'm about to go help her when Callie says, "What about your mommy and your daddy?"

"What?"

"Did God take them back to heaven?" She blinks slowly, her brown eyes the most innocent thing I've seen since I first rocked Judith to sleep.

"Her dad's alive, stupid," Max says.

"Max, that's not nice," Beth calls over.

Max doesn't seem to hear her. "Her dad's Daryl," he tells her sister. "That's why they go hunting all the time." Here he looks at me sorrowfully. "I used to go hunting."

"He's your daddy?" Callie asks me, disbelieving.

"Yep."

"Who, who's your mommy?"

"No one. My mommy – my mom's dead."

"No. God took her back to heaven."

And I stand. "No. She's just dead." I walk away then, because you know what? I'm not crazy about playing preschool. I didn't ask for that job, all I ever wanted to do was hunt. Hunt animals, hunt the Governor. I have simple desires and yet lately it's so damn hard to actually get them fulfilled.

To my cell I go. My bow's in here. I don't know when my brain decided the prison was so safe, but lately it hasn't bothered to bug me about keeping the bow on hand. I've got to work on that. Earlier, I took the laundry down from the line, so now I'm free to go shoot, and that's exactly what I'm going to do. I've got my bow on my knee and I'm waxing down the string when a shadow falls over my floor, and there's Beth, still holding Judith but without the bottle now.

I gesture out my doorway. "Should you leave them alone?"

"I took the crayons from Lacey. They should be okay for a minute." She pauses. Judith gurgles. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that to them."

"Like what?"

"You know. What you said about . . . your mom."

"That she's dead?" I snap the lid back onto my Vaseline jar. "She is."

"I know . . . I know you feel like that, and I get where you're coming from. And if you don't want them to know that your mom's actually alive –"

"She _isn't _actually alive."

Beth takes a breath. "If you're talking about someone being dead to them, just . . . talk about heaven if they want to. What can it hurt?"

I make a spitting noise and shoot up, slinging my bow, my quiver onto my back. "What can it hurt?" I repeat. "Trust me on this, lies hurt kids." And I brush past her.

"How do you know they're lies?" she asks my back.

_Because God is dead. Because God has never existed. Because any God capable of making this world can't be capable of making a heaven. Take your pick, Beth._

But I keep my mouth shut. On occasion, I can still remember how to do that.

. . . . .

"_It was a mistake," _she said. Kept saying. "_It was such an awful mistake."_

I was screaming by then, in that little room in Woodbury, in front of everybody. Being hugged by Dad, or pinned by him. And she just stood there crying. Begging. Pathetic.

I pull back the string, I pull back the trigger. Bullseye. The walkers all cheer for me. I step back. Things have gotten too easy. In this area of my life, things have gotten too easy, so I have to fix that, make it good and hard again. Another step back, another, another, until it's fifty paces away now. I draw, readjust. Aim, fire. I hit way left, a little low. Probably need to mess with my bow. I'll do it later. Not now. Now, I'll adapt. I'm good at adapting.

"_If you tell me you want to leave her here . . ." _Dad said to me right before the dawn broke, while people from Woodbury were lining up to load onto the school bus and Dad had snuck us away to something kind of private but not safe because safe didn't exist in that moment. _"Baby, if you tell me you want to leave her here, we'll leave her here."_

And God, I wanted to leave her.

This arrow hits just as far away as the one before it. Damn it, Sydney, damn it.

But I couldn't tell him to leave her. Because my dad's not that kind of man and I don't want to be that kind of woman.

But she would have deserved it. She would have. Alone in the walker-infested world, waiting for Woodbury to be overrun or taking her slim, slim chances outside of those walls. But no. Instead she's here, haunting my place, going on runs with Dad, who'll never be free of her, never. But he hates her, too, I know he does. We both hate her. How could we not? How could anyone tell us we shouldn't?

This arrow misses worse than either of the last two and my quiver's empty. I go to the hay bale.

She came to my cell that morning, that morning when we brought the Woodbury survivors. I was in my dad's lap and crying so hard I couldn't breathe and sometimes even screaming and LC came to the doorway and I heard her start to say something while crying, too, and I yelled at her and then Dad put me down and went to her, and yanked her out of the room, and then I didn't hear anything but I was alone, I was alone for a minute that felt longer than that and Dad got back and he didn't leave me for the rest of the day, for the night after that. I don't think either of us was up to being outside of that cell. I know I wasn't, and I like to think he wasn't, too, maybe because that was the last night he and I had before things started cracking between us. Before he wouldn't take me out looking for Governor. Before he stopped looking for the Governor. Before I started waking up sobbing into my sheets and stealing Dad's lighter and before he became part of the Council. Before the night I looked over at LC and realized she wasn't going away.

I rip the ten arrows from the hay bale. Over to my left, a group of walkers. One of them is familiar. I head over.

"_It was a mistake. I'm sorry, honey, baby, it was a mistake . . ."_

What do you know. There it is, plain as day. A nametag that says _Nick._

_ "Baby girl, we'll be fine, I promise, we'll be fine . . . Sydney . . . Oh, darlin', I'm so sorry . . ."_

I can stick the tip of the arrow through the chain link of this fence. Getting it through the one on the other side of the pathway will be a matter of luck. But I let the arrow go and, hah, luck's decided it'll be on my side. I guess every dog has its day, huh? Every dog has its day, and the walker that used to be a man named Nick is now a pile of meat that used to be a walker.

"_Daryl, I thought – I thought I wanted to die, I never meant –"_

And then a new voice, wrong and right, in place and out.

"_I don't know if I want to live. Or if I have to, or . . . or if it's just a habit."_

"Waste of an arrow," I tell the meat pile. Then I bite my wrist and walk back to the prison, alone.


	6. Serious

I wake up with something on my back, a weight that shouldn't be there. I flip over and it falls off, but I shouldn't have done that. "Hey, hey, it's me," Dad says, pulling his hand back, flashing his open palm. I swallow and push myself up to a sitting position. The little lamp he and I've had for so long is lit up on my bedside table. "Bad dream?"

"Don't remember." I start to rub my eyes and catch a glimpse of my bare forearm. I pull the covers up over it and the other one. "What happened with the run? Everyone okay?"

He has on a face he uses in these situations. A face that means _No, and it sucks_. That's the one he's wearing now, and dread floods through me. "Who?"

"Zach."

Zach. Good, nice Zach, who called me _Shortstuff_ and once told me I was more badass than he'd ever be, and who was with –

"Beth –"

And I remember what I said to her earlier, about God and heaven and lies, and I want to go back to sleep and stay there.

"I talked to her," Dad says. "She'll be fine."

He's sitting on my bed, like he used to do when he'd tuck me in. I'm too old for that now, though. But he does this sometimes, wakes me up to tell me he's back. I'm glad he does, too. I sleep better.

I'm about to ask how Zach died, but now Dad's arm is going out, and he's frowning. He takes the folded paper off of the top of _Animal Farm _and I stiffen_._

"Uh, that's –" I start, but he's already opened it and spread it out as much as he can in the air. It's a map of Georgia. A map with a lot of scribbles around Macon.

"Plannin' a trip?" he asks tightly.

"No, I was just – I was just lookin' for the easiest way for Michonne to take. If she's gonna go –"

Dad folds the map – _my _map – back up, stands, and stuffs it in his pocket. "She _shouldn't_ be goin'. It's dangerous."

"Well, tell her that, not me." And I find a place on the wall and keep my eyes there.

Dad sighs. He steps toward the door, and I'm wondering if he's really going to leave without saying goodnight, when he turns to me again.

"Talked to Carol. You call some girl a bitch today?"

Lizzie really wasn't kidding about telling, then. I almost can't believe it. It's such a stupid, silly thing to get worked up about, nowadays. "Yeah, and she deserved it."

"Why?"

I kick the covers from my legs, put my feet over the edge of the bed, and I try to tell him, I mean to. But the words don't come out. Because he wouldn't understand, I know he wouldn't. If he'd understand, then he'd still be trying to find the Governor.

He gets that I'm not going to answer, and he rubs his jaw, a little too hard. "Tell her you're sorry tomorrow."

"No." That's not even in the question. And Dad, Dad makes the same sort of spitting noise I made with Beth earlier.

"Sydney – I've got –" he tosses his arm out to nothing – "I've got some sort of standin' here. People got expectations of me, whether I like it or not, and they got expectations of you, too."

I'm on my feet, the prison floor cool through my socks. I take a few steps and rub my hand across the rough wall. Some of the others have put up decorations on their walls. I've never seen the point. "Well, I didn't ask for them to," I say. "I didn't ask for you to be on some Council, you know."

"Did you see me campaignin'? Makin' speeches?" He's working to keep his voice down, but he really wants to make it loud, so he's doing this whisper-yelling thing that might be worse than just plain yelling, I'm not sure. "I didn't ask for it, neither, and I'm sorry if it ain't fun for you, Princess, but if you –"

I whirl to face him.

_"Don't call me that!"_

I've startled him. Maybe for the first time in my life, I've startled him. He's jerked back and he's watching me like I'm a strange creature he doesn't know.

"Don't you call me that . . ." My voice breaks, it breaks, and I go back to my bunk but don't get into bed, just rest my forehead on one of the rails holding the top mattress, for a minute, because the chill of it feels nice. And I wish I were somewhere colder, somewhere very far away, somewhere lonely. Away even from Carl. Because he shouldn't be around me either –

I'm not supposed to think like this anymore but I can't just –

Then, "Babe, I –"

I can't, though, Dad.

"Please leave."

Silence.

I turn around, eye the wall, leaning back on my bed because I don't trust my legs. "Please," I say again, and I'm trembling and so is my voice. "Please leave."

A long moment, too long, and miserable, and then Dad's moving over here. He moves right in front of me. I don't look at him. He looks at me, though, he looks and looks, and then he bends down and takes my Buck knife from my bedside. I say nothing. I stay perfectly still while he goes to the chair in the corner and takes my vest up and finds my little knife in the inside pocket. He puts the vest back and stays in the corner for a while. I hug myself and hold my breath because he'd hear how unsteady it is otherwise.

"Tell that girl you're sorry tomorrow," he finally says. "It'll suck, but it'll make your life easier."

It'll make someone's life easier.

He leaves and I sink onto the bed and put my head in my arms. I let myself breathe, let the ragged breaths come, but I hold back the tears. If I don't cry about it, it can't be that serious.


	7. Things Change

I make it out to the catwalk, where I kick and shake the chain-link until I realize how walker-like that is and stop, disgusted, but then I go to eyeing a piece of wire that's broken off and juts out from the rest, ending in this sharp point, and that's when Carl comes out. And maybe he shouldn't be around me, maybe so. But I don't care, I just can't. I want him here, need him, so he talks and we sit and I cry and he listens and I love him.

"I'm starting to think it won't get better." My teeth are clamped shut and my words come out slurred, uneven.

"What?"

"Me. Dad . . . Why'd he stop looking for the Governor?"

"I don't know."

"He shouldn't have. He's acting all high and mighty around here, but he won't even go after – after the man who –" I press my hand to my mouth, like my – like my mother would do. "And _LC_," I hiss over my fingers, through my tears. "He's taking _LC _on runs? And not me? He doesn't trust me anymore –"

"That's not true –"

"He blames me. He acts like he doesn't, but he does . . . And he's right to –"

"Sydney – he doesn't blame you! It wasn't your fault!"

. . . . .

_"You shoulda died in Atlanta, Uncle Merle."_

_. . . . ._

I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes until I'm inside my own personal kaleidoscope. "I'm trying, man, I am," I whisper to him, to the stars. "And I keep telling myself how much better I am, but sometimes –"

"You're better. I saw you when you were bad – hey." He pulls down my hands. "You're better."

Am I? Well, Carl says so.

And suddenly humor, however bitter, enters me. Suddenly I'm smiling past the water on my cheeks and the red in my eyes.

"What?"

"I used to do this for you . . . _Coddle _you like this."

"No way."

"I did and you know it. I always tried to . . . to protect you." With lies and nice words and always, always good intentions.

"You never _coddled_ me."

I just pop my eyebrows and say nothing else about it.

"But . . . that's what you and I do," he says, and I open my eyes to see his fall, and his fingers tangle together for a bit before he turns his gaze back up again. It's blue eyes on blue eyes, but I can't imagine how my eyes could be prettier than his in this moment, lit up by the moonlight and by all that stuff he has in him that makes me feel special. "The protect part, I mean. We protect each other."

"But it used to be me doing most of the protecting."

I expect him to argue with that, he and I are good at arguing, but to my surprise he nods. "Maybe . . . Maybe it was like that for too long. Maybe I need to take care of _you_ for a while, and then it'll all even out, you know? Like, I'll take care of you, and you'll take care of me. Equally."

His hand is touching my arm now, lightly, and I wonder if he's thinking about how it's right on top of the worst scar I have.

Oh, Carl. He's done so much, been forced through so much. He's seen his mother die and he's shot her in the head. He lost his father for a while. He killed a man – but I don't think about that part.

What I think about, what's important, is that he's good. This boy who sits with this girl with the mutilated arms and the guilt and the hopelessness, he is good. I can hear it when he talks like this, see it when he looks at me like this, and I don't care what he's done – he's good, deep down, Lori said so, and everything he does comes from that goodness, I know it, I swear it, I can see him better than most, and all he's ever done is try to follow that goodness, that wonderful goodness that _I need in me_. I want it, I want it with a hunger worse than any I've ever felt before – I need it to fill up this black inside of me, if goodness can even exist inside of me anymore, and if it can, if it can, I want the exact goodness of _Carl, _because I can't imagine good getting better than him. I can't imagine good getting better than my Carl. Because he's never plotted to rob his own camp or faked his death or killed his uncle, has he? No. He never could.

Maybe that's why I kiss him.


	8. Warmth

Sleep doesn't come easy that night. When it does come, it's mean.

I'm in Merle's trailer and I'm six years old. There's a beer in front of me and my uncle's across the table, just kicking back, telling me that if I'm running away it means I have to be a grownup and that means that I have to drink grownup drinks.

That's where the memory ends and the nightmare begins.

When I sip the beer, it's warm and thick and tastes of iron. I put it down, see the red staining the can. I touch my lips and that's when I remember that I'm not six, I'm twelve, and Merle is dead and these lips just had their first kiss. And when I bring my fingers into sight again, they're covered in red, and the red drips down into my palms, drenching them.

_"Look at you, Sydney Rose."_

I look at him, though. His hand is gone and there's no metal replacement, just the stump. Back and forth goes his head.

"_Mm-mm-mm. Your ole uncle's sacrificed himself all 'cause of you . . . Saved the bacon of your precious cellmates . . . And you, you just run off and start makin' eyes at some boy?"_

He leans forward.

"_I went and got myself murdered for you, girl. And you ain't even gonna go lookin' for the man who done the killin'?"_

I know I'm asleep. I know that. I have to wake up, right now.

_"Then again . . . I guess you ain't too much more innocent than him, huh?"_

Wake. Up.

_"And don't even get me started on your mama . . ."_

Wake up now!

And I do. I wake up, in the black of the prison, sweating, panting, even whining, until I have the good sense to clamp both hands – clean, pale hands – over my mouth. My blankets are knotted at the foot of my bed, leaving my legs free to go over the edge and touch the floor, the good and solid and real floor. My spine curls so I fold in on myself, and I stay like that until my lungs are doing things right again, until I've stopped quivering, until I'm not so sweaty and prone to whimpering. I stay there for a while.

My Papaw used to say that dreams are the body's way of cleaning out your head. I think nightmares might be the body's way of cleaning out your heart. It's how it gets rid of all of the fear and doubt and guilt, leaving only the love, the loyalty, the faith.

If that's the case, this will not be my last nightmare. Not by a long shot.

. . . . .

Two or three hours and no sleep later, it's thirty crunches, thirty pushups.

And I'm so stupid.

As an afterthought, I throw in thirty lunges, too. Can't forget the legs. They're what let me run.

So, so stupid.

Boots, overshirt, vest, bow, quiver, gun, sunglasses, ponytail holder.

I didn't even think about kissing him. He was there, we were close in every way, and touching my lips to his was natural, it was. It wasn't even awkward. Not until after.

Rubber band. Backup rubber band. Stereo.

After. It was nice until after. But it shouldn't have been nice because it shouldn't have happened because I know better,_ I know better,_ but apparently I don't – I'm _so _stupid!

Pretty stars, bright, bright, bright. Morning's on its way, but they don't know it, the stars. Or maybe they do. Maybe . . .

Never mind.

Who has their first kiss with their best friend, their favorite person, and then instead of dreaming about _that_ has a nightmare about the uncle they killed? Someone screwed the hell up, that's who. Someone who does not belong with someone like Carl. He's too good, like I said, and his goodness is his own and it doesn't belong with me, in me. I am stained red.

Yank down the tarp. Move back, back more. Play AC/DC, the album _Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap _this time. Pull up hair and watch the walkers. Hold bow. Pull back string, and be at peace for a little while. Let the mind soothe itself. Forget about wronged dead uncles and sinful first kisses.

Damn.

The sunrise comes. Like always, even the brightest stars can't keep going. They die away, and one time when I turn from getting my arrows I see Michonne getting a horse, and the next time I turn I see Michonne still, plus Rick and Carl coming down to the crops, and the next time after I get my arrows back it's just Rick and Carl. I don't wave to any of them at any time. I slip on my sunglasses and pretend I don't notice they're here.

But, right after the time when it's just Carl and Rick in the field, and I'm down to two arrows in my quiver and I'm about to let one fly, I hear, "Hey."

He screws with my aim. I have to sight in again. "Hey." I fire. I hit.

"Good shot."

"Thanks." AC/DC blasts on. I want to keep letting it go, but I won't be rude to Carl. Not even now, not even with what I know he's about to make me do. So I step on the stereo's power button and load a new arrow, listening only to the walkers now. The walkers and Carl.

"You left pretty fast last night."

"No, I didn't." Yes, I did. Like a fish thrown back in the water.

"Yeah, you did."

I shoot. I'm a good foot from the bullseye this time. You'd almost think I was distracted.

"Was it . . ." Carl begins. And oh, God, he sounds uncomfortable. "Was it because you wish you hadn't . . ."

"It's not – it's not that I wish I hadn't." Have to load this arrow. Loading arrows, that I can handle, no problem. I'm good at that. Not this. Not what Carl wants. "It's just . . ." And here I look at him, finally, at him and his oversized button-down shirt and his unbrushed hair and his face that reminds me of a puppy and his father all at once, and I drop my eyes back to the bow, snap the arrow on the string. "It's just that I think I shouldn't have."

"Why not?"

"Because." Lift the bow, draw.

"Could you stop shooting?"

I shoot anyway. Miss. "Damn it!" And I jog to the target, to the hay bale, and start yanking. The whole time I'm praying he'll get the picture, Carl will, that he'll leave me alone and save us both some heartache.

But then, right behind me again, "Why –"

"Because I'm a mess, Carl!"

I round on him, one fist full of arrows, voice a little higher than it should be – I almost sound pleading. But I really, really need him to understand. Or come as close as he can. "I'm not the kind of girl you should . . ."

"I should what?"

_"Be_ with!" I whirl, yank out two more arrows.

"Why not?"

"Because _I am a mess!" _I pull the last arrow out so hard it flies from my hand and skids across the grass. "Don't know if you've noticed," I growl as I go after it, "But I got some issues. I got my uncle killed –"

"Sydney –"

I straighten, drop all of the arrows back into my quiver. "It wasn't my fault, yeah, I've heard. And neither was my mother faking her own death."

"It _wasn't. _Neither of those were –"

"See? I should believe you! But I don't! You know why? Because. I am. _A mess." _I gulp. Past Carl, Rick is standing up in the crop field, watching us. I clear my throat and am about to keep going with something, not sure what, but ideally it's something that can be said in a lower tone, only Carl talks before I can.

"This isn't about you liking yourself, Sydney! It's about _me_ liking you!"

"Carl –"

"I love you."

Which ties my tongue up. My arms have gone limp, my bow taps against my thigh, and I just watch Carl, who has come very close to me.

"I do," he says. And he sounds sure. He looks sure. How can he seem so damn sure? Why can't I ever be that sure? "After everything we've been through, how could I not? I mean, it's not like . . . like how Glenn loves Maggie, but . . . but I think it could be."

I don't know what to say to that.

"I want it to be."

I sure as _hell_ don't know what to say to that. All I know is that my eyes, my neck, and the inside and outside of my chest are all very warm. Finally, "You're crazy."

"No," he says, and his little half-smile is playing with me, "You're the crazy one, remember?"

I grin, turning my head down and squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, pushing back the tears that apparently have no place here.

Because I tried to warn him. I did. I tried to remind him who I am. How screwed up I've gotten. I gave him a chance to back off and he didn't –

But my nightmare, maybe I should –

No. I tried to warn him, he doesn't need to hear about the nightmare, he's got the gist of me and Merle and Merle dying. He's got the gist of me and LC. And he still wants me, Carl. He still wants to try to love me like Glenn loves Maggie.

And I want that, too.

So, "Okay, then, city boy."

"What?"

I exhale through an o-shaped mouth. "You really wanna do this?"

"Yeah, Syd. I really wanna do this."

So. Damn. Sure. I've got to try that.

I nod. "Okay, then."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Just like that. We eye each other, smiling, then I look at the ground, and when I look at him again, _he's _looking at the ground, but then his eyes dart back up and catch mine, and I giggle and he does this huffy-laugh thing. And it's nice.

"So . . . can I kiss you?" he asks.

A blush spreads across my cheeks like hot water, and I'm about to say he doesn't have to ask when I'm suddenly very aware of where we are, and how right over there is Carl's dad, back to working the crops but still casting looks over at us whenever he can.

"Your dad's watching," I whisper.

"He has to know sooner or later."

"Yeah, but . . ." I shrug. "Once your dad finds out, he's gonna tell my dad, and that . . . that could get . . . weird. Uncomfortable. For you, mostly."

I'll admit, it's really very hard to keep a straight face at this point, especially since Carl's is crumbling into a so very not-straight face. "I thought your dad liked me."

I go and pick up my stereo before heaving a sigh and giving Carl a sympathetic look. "Aw." And I pat him on the shoulder as I pass him – my boyfriend. "He definitely used to."

"Wh – you're kidding, right?"

With my back to him, I let the warmth inside of me have my face, let my lips spread in a wider smile than they've dared try in a while. I make my way up to the courtyard, grinning like an idiot, and I don't even care. All I can think about is that maybe next time I'll let him kiss me, even if Rick's there, even if my dad and the whole damn prison is there. I can't be bothered by things like that anymore.

This is happiness. I remember it now.

. . . . .

It's early for me to stop shooting, so Carol doesn't have breakfast ready yet. But she gives me a look as I pass by the pavilion. "What's on your mind?"

"What?"

"You're smiling. Genuinely. Been a while since I've seen you do that."

I laugh a little and stutter out something about shooting really well, and I don't hang around to see if she buys it. Don't really care if she does or doesn't.

When I get into Cell Block C, most everyone's up. Not really such a thing as sleeping in anymore. I drop my stereo off at my cell – but not my bow, I remember I don't want to do that from now on. Then I go back to the dining room, saying hi to Judith and Beth on the way, and I've settled myself at a table with an open can of peaches and a spoon when someone comes and sits next to me.

"Think we should talk."

Goodbye, warmth. Goodbye.

I swallow slowly, my stomach and throat already threating to fight against me, and without looking at Dad I say, "I got a feelin' that, if you want me to keep this down, we probably shouldn't."

So he stays quiet. But he doesn't go away. I manage another two bites before remembering something. "Can I have my knives back?"

He digs into a pocket. A moment later he's sliding both of them across to me, my Buck knife, my pocket knife. I check the blades, mostly just to give the peaches in my stomach more time to make room. I feel Dad's eyes on me the whole time.

When I've put my knives in their rightful places, it's quiet between us again, and there's only soft chatter from around C. Sasha and Tyreese talk at the other table. I can hear Judith babbling over by the cells. Beth and Hershel discuss something, both of their voices so sweet and comforting, though as different as anything.

"That girl you called a bitch yesterday?"

I force down a peach, drop my spoon into the can, and fold my hands in front of my face.

"She talkin' 'bout your uncle?"

A sigh, or a grumble, maybe both, comes from deep inside of me. I sound sick. I feel sick. "Carl tell you?"

"One of the other kids told Carol. A boy named Luke . . . Carl ain't the only kid who likes you, y'know."

Hah. "He likes me the best." _Trust me._

A minute or two passes, long enough that I'm contemplating going for at least one more peach.

"Fine," Dad says right then. "You don't have to tell her you're sorry."

I can't help it, I have to look at him. And his face is cool – I don't think he's joking, or being sarcastic, or anything. "Really?"

"Probably don't make me Parent of the Year. But sometimes a bitch is a bitch."

I want to laugh but I feel a bit too stunned.

Dad, he puts a hand on my shoulder as he rises, gets his legs out from under the table. "Let's go huntin' later today, alright?"

"Alright –" And then, when he's already a few steps away and off to do important things, I say, "Hey!"

He looks back. I fidget. Tyreese and Sasha are in here, so I decide to go ahead and get up and move closer to my dad – right in front of him, actually – where I fidget some more. "Sorry," I eventually say. "'Bout last night."

I can't remember the last time I even considered apologizing to Dad for anything, but if it catches him off guard, he hides it well. He only gives one of his little nods, looking away for a second but looking back just as fast, and this time his eyes hang on mine and drive in deep.

"Syd, don't start shuttin' me out again," he says. "'Kay?"

I'll be damned if he's not using his special gentle voice.

The warmth's starting to come back, hesitantly, but it's as wonderful as the chicken soup Carol gave me once. I'm about to promise Dad I won't shut him out again – hell, after a morning like this, I might be about to promise him I'll be an angel for the rest of my life – when there's the kind of _bang _that I've heard so many times, so many times, but it's still wrong when it's here and it's now. And my father's just snapped his hand onto my shoulder when outside, as clear as day, I hear a girl scream for help, and then –

_"Walkers in D!"_

– I feel cold.


	9. A Head That's Broken

Inside C, it's like someone's lit a fire under everybody. There's some yelling, Judith screeching, and people begin to spill outside. My dad is one of the people who spill. He says _stay in here_ and disappears, and I know I should listen. I intend to, at first, my foot moves back and everything. But as I do that my quiver shifts against my back and that makes me aware of my bow's weight on my shoulder, and how would it be right, _how_, for me to stay in here when someone just screamed for help and I can help?

So I go. My feet barely seem to tap on the asphalt outside, and I fly past a couple of people, of kids – Mika and Lizzie, it's Mika and Lizzie – and there's someone going into Cell Block D and I chase after them, swinging my bow down from my shoulder, nocking an arrow, ready to go.

The air inside is thick with blood and screaming. I register that first. Then the moans.

_Walkers in D._ Walkers in our prison. Like when Lori and T-Dog –

Cell Block D is laid out exactly the same way as C is, with a long room holding the cells, two staircases jutting to the upper floor, the balcony. It looks like my home, and it is a part of my home, and screw being ready to go – I can't keep myself from locking up, from zoning out, when it all falls into my eyes and on my ears and into my everything. It's chaos at its finest. Dead people lie around and walk around, reach and tear, and the screaming, the _screaming, _it hurts on every level and someone shoves me as they run to freedom and Rick's right ahead, Rick's yelling _Are you bit? _and he has a gun and it's been a long time since I've seen Rick with a gun and I don't know where my dad's gone and there's a walker over there and somehow, even with me like I am, my bow knows what to do. My bow, my arrow, my trigger, they put the walker down. Then my feet come in, the legs I did lunges with because they're how I run, and now they let me run forward, past Rick and up the stairs past the fleeing people. My legs and my weapons are working together now, and it takes the time to get me to the top of the stairs before I understand their plan: High ground. Arrows raining down.

Who I think are the last people up here bolt past me in tears while I situate myself. There's one walker, still, but he's far enough away on the balcony that I leave him be for a moment, because right down there a walker's right on Carol – Carol, why is she here? – the walker is right on Carol's back and I put it down, and it's only after I do that that I realize the walker has long blonde hair and a denim jacket with a bird on the back and that's Melinda's jacket and that's Melinda's hair and that was Melinda the walker.

No time to think about it.

Glenn is in the corner but he's yanking a blade from a head, he's fine. Rick's still yelling something and I don't know where my dad is, and almost directly below me, almost directly, LC splits a head in half and blood flies over her, and there's another walker coming for her.

Does she see it? I see it. What do you think, bow?

LC spins toward the walker right as there's growling to my right. The walker up here with me is stumbling closer towards the turn on the balcony, the one that will take him to the top of the staircase, right to me. I move forward to meet him, raise my bow, because my bow and legs and I are all on the same page now, or they were, they were, until I've taken in the walker's shaggy hair and big nose and the truth's hit like an arrow meant for me. It's Patrick. It was. His face is bloody, blood runs even from his eyeballs, but it's Patrick.

My hand goes rigid around the bow. I have to make it relax. Like I have to make my finger pull the trigger. Like I have to let the arrow go. I have to let it go. I hit his forehead, dead on. Its forehead. It falls, goes silent. I gulp for air. My legs take over again, and they move forward to him, Patrick. Patrick . . .

Then there's a snarl and hands groping for my flesh from all too close – a walker's fallen out of the cell over Patrick's corpse, he was hiding like a person, and now he's not, and his fingers are clammy as they pinch my skin, _my skin, _and I fall back and kick away, move away, scramble. And why don't I use my bow? It's right here in my fist. Why don't I shoot the walker?

Because it's my uncle's walker. And me, I scream like I didn't know I could scream because it's wrong it's wrong it's wrong it's impossible and I can't and _no, no no NO –_ his eyes are yellow and his metal arm stretches out to me and I keep moving back but I press into metal metal metal and I can't go farther and he's dead but he's not he's coming and – An arrow that's not mine goes through his head and I scream no.

Then I try to get farther away from it and all things but I'm trapped and then Dad's up the stairs and he said he –

He grabs my arm and hauls me up and I can't find balance on my boots. _"Get the hell out of here!"_

But I get away from him and fall to my knees and grab my uncle's corpse and grapple with it, and it's real, it is, and then its head rolls over and I'm looking into yellow eyes and they are not the shape of my uncle's. The nose is not the shape of my uncle's and the mouth is not the shape of my uncle's and I'm staring into the dead face of a man I know but can't name because _Merle _is the only name in my head right now, _Merle _and _Dad. _It's _Dad _who yanks me off not-_Merle_, and it's _Dad _who leads, or drags, or pushes me down the stairs by the fistful he's taken of my shirt, and it's _Dad _who stabs a walker through the head on the way out, and it's _Dad _who pushes me into the sunlight and the air, the air so pure I gasp, and then _Dad_ slams the door behind him and I am left with crying not-Dads and not-Merles, and at first my legs are confused because somewhere inside my bow was lost to terror but they manage on their own, my legs, they manage to get me over to a corner of the courtyard and they drop the rest of me onto a crate so they can rest. Every part of me rests, though. I am thoroughly exhausted.

. . . . .

The courtyard clears, fills, clears, moves and breathes, and I pretend I'm not a part of any of it. I am wall. I feel nothing, think nothing, listen to nothing and say nothing. I am wall. I am brick.

Until, until, there's a slamming noise from D's door and brick is blown down by the roaring wolf. _"Which part of _stay here_ is so hard for you to understand?"_

"I don't know," I croak at my boots. "I'm sorry."

"Damn right you are!" His crossbow falls next to me, clattering on the concrete, and he's kneeling in front of me now and he told me a few months ago that I'm too old to get a spanking anymore but I still half-expect it when his hands take hold of me, but what happens is he pulls me into him and wraps me up and I hide in his shirt, even though we're alone out here now, because there are still things I want to hide from and in Dad's arms has always been the best hiding place. His hand covers the back of my head, his heart's pounding. His voice isn't so fierce when he talks next. It's just shaky and not like my father's voice should be. "What the hell was that?"

He could be asking about the whole thing, but I know better, I'm not who he'd ask about the whole thing. I know what he's asking and I don't have an answer. Soon he breaks us apart, keeps our faces close. There are tiny droplets of blood on his. He wants a reply, but I'm looking at his crossbow. It has a bloodstain at the end of it. I wonder whose blood it is.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad tilt his head into his fingers. "What happened to not shuttin' me out?"

Doesn't he remember? Walkers came before I could tell him I wouldn't. I never made that promise. I can shut him out and shut me in all I want. Even if it means trembling hands, twitching lips, wet eyes, uneven breaths.

"Baby girl . . ."

I close my eyes, let the tears roll. Watch again my uncle's walker coming from that cell. Not really. Not really. Really. _Really, _I would have sworn to heaven and hell my dead uncle was coming for me in there, in Cell Block D, in part of my home sweet home.

I fall to my knees and heave, heave out peaches and acid and then nothing, nothing at all, and Dad hooks an arm around my stomach and keeps me from collapsing into my own mess and he rubs my back and he's warm but even he can't erase ghost memories from a head that's broken.


	10. Apologies

Later, I am on one end of some bleachers and Carl is on the other. It's not the way girlfriends and boyfriends should sit, a whole person's length apart. But I've been exposed to a virus that could end up killing me and I'm not about to give it to him.

A flu. That's what Dr. S called it. Something that simple, something I associate with bed and staying home from school and getting a shot in a grocery store. That's what killed Patrick. Patrick and Charlie. And, really, all of the rest of them, too.

And me, Dad, Rick, Glenn and Hershel and Carol and LC and everyone, everyone who was in Cell Block D, we've all been exposed, too. We could all die, too.

From a flu.

Oh, and I also imagined the corpse of my uncle tried to kill me. So I'm a little concerned about that, too.

"Who?" Carl asks after a lot of silence. I wish he was closer. I wish I could press my face into his neck like I've only ever done a handful of times. And it's still hard for me to grasp all but three names, so answering him is hard.

"A lot," I finally say. My eyes drift to the side of the bleachers, where my bow is resting. My quiver, too, and all its arrows. Dad brought me everything out and all I can think about when I look at them is how much help those damn things ended up _not _being. How much help I ended up not being.

One new name that's not new at all materializes inside my mind and drops onto my tongue before my gut can argue, can beg. "They can't find Lacey. But her mom turned. Lacey always slept in her bed. And a three-year-old, you know . . . so small . . . What would be left but some extra blood on the sheets?"

I guess Carl doesn't know what would be left but some extra blood on the sheets.

More names, yes, my brain's starting to turn right again, turn right and remind me of so much wrong. "And Lizzie and Mika's dad. He got bit. Carol put him down . . ." My hands clasp together, turning white. "And Max and Callie turned."

_Did God take them back to heaven?_

"Did you . . ."

"No." I didn't even see them. And I didn't want to, even after. "But Patrick . . ."

"Syd. You had to."

"But, Carl, there was him, and there was Melinda, and there was someone else I didn't even . . . recognize. And with the first two, I didn't even think about it, but with Patrick, I was looking right into the eyes, and . . ."

"You had to."

"It was hard."

"But you did it."

My voice is unsteady but I don't feel ready to cry. My head is still too fuzzy for me to do that. Fuzzy and haunted. Only one thing is clear, one thought that keeps swirling inside of my head. "Carl, if it was that hard for me, with Patrick, what . . . I keep going back to my dad. How it must have been for him to . . ."

I saw him come back that night. I saw his face and I thought I understood but I didn't. I don't. And now, I'm terrified to.

"His own brother . . ."

Carl either doesn't know what to say or just gets that I don't need him to say anything. Probably the latter. I hope the latter. Yes, the latter. He gets it. He gets me. Someone has to. And if he gets me, then . . .

"Carl, when I was in there . . ." Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. "When I was in there, I saw . . ."

"What?"

I close my eyes. I can't. "Just . . . it was awful, you know?"

He thinks he knows. I can tell he does, when I work up the courage to look at him, but he's wrong. He doesn't know the half of it. I want him to. I want him to. But he's been protecting me lately, and now it's my turn again. I'll protect him from thinking his girlfriend might be losing her mind. Even though she probably is.

"What's gonna happen?" he asks.

"Council's meeting now. Guess they'll figure somethin' out."

And it'll all be alright. My dad and Carol and Glenn and Hershel and Sasha will come up with a plan to save us all, and once we're all saved, my mind will heal itself right up, keep separate the stuff of reality and the stuff of nightmares once again. We'll bury our dead and move on, like we always do.

Like we always, always do.

. . . . .

Karen's coughing.

The way the flu works, according to what I've picked up, is that you cough and cough until your lungs can't take it anymore and they blow out through your head. Eyes, mouth, ears. And you choke. _Asphyxiation, _Hershel called it. I think I'd call it hell.

And Karen might be about to go through hell.

The Council wants to separate everybody who's been exposed from those who haven't, as far as we know. So I have to stay out of the C Block – all of us do. And we're not going back into D; it's not worth the cleanup, not when it's already so tainted with disease and death. And that's why I'm currently standing in the doorway of Karen's new cell, one of the ones in the tombs, where no light shines and there aren't even bunk beds, because you're supposed to be lonely down here.

Karen's sitting on the bed and Dr. S is looking her over, asking her questions, while Tyreese is standing up right by them, his arms crossed. He's worried. He should be.

LC's sitting next to Karen. Probably closer than she should. My dad's out burying people now, and Hershel's making him wear a mask, so you'd think we'd all need to have them, too. But I'm not about to mention it to Hershel, or LC. Let her risk it. She and Karen are friends, apparently. LC is such a wonderful friend, holding Karen's hand even though Karen could end up killing her. Always there when you need her, LC.

Hershel's next to me. Watching. I probably shouldn't bother him, but I find I'm a bother no matter how I act, so I go ahead and talk. Quietly.

"Do you think she'll get better?"

One thing I like about Hershel is that he won't lie to you. He'll say what he has to say in the nicest possible way, but it'll be the truth, no matter how hard and cold it is. "Can't really guess. Not when it's only affected two other people."

"They both died." So I could guess.

Hershel sighs. Then, "You probably shouldn't be down here –"

_" – You killed him!"_

My head jerks over and I see her, a smallish figure racing towards us from the other end of the corridor. Lizzie. And when she's closer I can see that she's looking right at me and her words register and horror nails into my heart – how does she know? How –

I move towards her as she hurtles towards me and I stutter out something like _What are you talking about _and then her hand snaps across my cheek and takes a hold of my hair, dragging me downwards.

_"You killed Nick!"_

Nick? The walker? This is about the stupid walker!

_"It was _your _arrow –"_

Adults shout and I grab Lizzie's forearm and drive my fingernails into her, and as soon as her grip loosens on my hair my other hand flies out and gets her shoulder or her arm or something and pulls, pulls her around and close enough for me to ram into her, into this idiotic girl, and send her to the ground.

_ "Are you kidding me?" _I yell, my fists at my sides and rage all through me. _"Are you –"_

"Stop." And a face is next to mine and I turn to it and then back away, stumble away.

"Don't touch me!"

Because it's LC. And I know that damn look she has on and I hate her for thinking she still has the right to wear it.

"Sydney," she says, "Stop. Look at her."

I hit brick wall, panting, and stare at LC with her stupid serious look until I'm aware of the sobbing and whimpering that comes from neither of us and my eyes have to go to Lizzie.

She hasn't gotten up. She's on her side, her head nestled into her arm. Hershel is crouching next to her, a hand on her back and fingers gliding over her hair, and I can't tell if it's to comfort her or check her for injury or what, but either way, I find myself incapable of being angry with him. And there's Tyreese and Karen. Tyreese is closer. And after I sigh, murmur _damn it_,and push off the wall, I see him edge forward, ready to get in between me and Lizzie. But even if I wanted to hurt her more, I wouldn't have the energy. Looking at anything as pitiful as what she is right now makes a person tired.

Christ. Her dad's dead.

I get closer to her and sort of fall down to a sit, then go even lower, onto my elbows. "It . . . _Nick_ was a _walker," _I say. "He wasn't human."

"You killed him . . ."

"I . . ." I rub a hand over my eyes, my mouth. "I, I didn't know –"

_"You killed him!"_

"I – I put him down! I did! And you know what? I didn't have any reason to, so maybe I shouldn't have, but I did, because I'm –"

She's stopped sobbing. Still crying, but not sobbing. Still down like a hurt bird, though. Hershel bows his head above her and I don't want to catch his gaze.

"I shouldn't have shot him," I admit again, and I want that to be the end of it, I want to get out of here, so I try to stand, but all I end up doing is sitting. My neck then goes limp and my head falls back. My cheek stings and so does my scalp.

And then, "I'm sorry I called you a bitch."

Sniffling. That's all she does, that's all I expected.

But no, now –

"Sorry I called your uncle a killer."

Is that a chuckle that comes out of my mouth? Maybe. Some sort of butchered version. "It's okay," I tell the ceiling. "He was."


	11. First Priority

Again, I meet Carl in the courtyard, right before sunset. Again, I wish I could touch him. His face looks ten years older, because of the light, because of the day. As if losing over a dozen of our people wasn't enough, Rick and my dad ended up leading away some walkers that were piling up against the fence – so bad it was about to break – by dropping our pigs off away from the fence. Can't say they were wrong to do it, since it worked and Rick and Hershel think the pigs might have had the same flu Patrick and Charlie had and it would have been dangerous to keep them around anyway, but Carl helped raise those pigs. Hell, he named them. He just . . . didn't need one more thing to be sad over.

He smiles when he sees me. But his smile is gone just as fast. "What's with your cheek?"

I touch the hot skin, tell him not to worry about it, even though it's definitely swelling up. There's a lump of things at Carl's feet that I nod to it. "Did you bring me presents?"

He nudges the pile with his shoe. "Brought you your stereo."

"Good to see you're remembering the important things."

"And _Animal Farm_ –"

"Good. Need to burn it."

He raises his eyebrows. I shrug.

"Nice character dies. Don't need any more of that. Anything else?"

"Uh, _Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap, _and _Back in Black, _and . . ." He skids something across the asphalt to me. "I found this on top of your bunk. It hasn't even been opened. Did you forget about it?"

As soon as the square chunk of plastic reaches me, my heart starts racing. I wrestle to stay stoic as I pick up the CD case, as I look into the pale faces of the band on the cover. My hands can't hold it steady. I had the same reaction when Michonne brought the album back to me weeks ago, when she pulled it out of her knapsack with a sneaky smile, expecting me to be so very happy to get it, one of AC/DC's most famous albums – _Highway to Hell. _

I clear my throat, make my lips turn up and then my eyes. "Alright," I tell Carl. "Back off."

He frowns, eyeing the thing in my hands. Wanting an explanation I'm not prepared to give. He backs up, though, about ten steps, and I call that safe enough for me to go to where he stood and gather my stuff into my arms. "You're my hero," I say as I stand.

He's staring at me. I stare back for a minute, but he doesn't say anything, so before long I do. "What?"

"I just really wish I could kiss you right now."

I can already tell he's going to be unbelievably better at this than me. Me, who had a mental breakdown the day Carl started . . . _dating_ me, a breakdown over something completely unrelated. Something so much less nice, something I would so much rather forget.

How did that get first priority today? How did _he _get first priority?

Oh, right. Because he's always first priority.

. . . . .

I spend an hour sitting on the catwalk that night, watching the stars. Even see a falling one, once. Before I understood that falling stars aren't actually falling stars, I felt sorry for them, losing their place like that. And it must have been such a good place, I always thought, a place where you could see everything in the whole world. Now, I think, if stars really did fall, they'd feel relieved. It would mean they wouldn't have to watch anymore.

It was here that I saw Michonne come back without my uncle or my dad. It was here that I saw my dad come back without my uncle. My palm moves in circles along the catwalk's floor. This is where my tears fell and sank in, to forever become part of the prison. To stain it of that night and of my mistake.

Dad finds me soon. I knew it had to happen. He's wearing his vest. He comes out silently and sits down with his back to the chain-link, like me. He looks up at the sky, like me. And I decide to go ahead and jump into it.

"She hit me first."

"I know."

"You mad?"

"Nope."

Which sucks, because that means it's about the other thing. I'd hoped – in vain, maybe, but I'd hoped – that the other thing would just slip from his mind throughout the chaos of the rest of the day, the bodies and the sickness and the pigs. But I should know better, I guess. Dad's smart and things don't just slip from him.

"LC acted like . . ." I don't want to say _a mom. _She doesn't deserve the comparison.

"I'll talk to her."

"You don't have to."

A little wind comes and brushes around and over me and makes something, somewhere, whistle just a tiny bit. It's warm and I like it and I wish I could bring it in me and let it stay.

"You okay?" Dad asks.

"Yeah. Yeah, she didn't really bother me –"

"Nah, that ain't what I mean."

My knees are drawn into my chest, my arms looped around them. I make shapes with my fingers and try to guess what my brain wants them to be. "I'm okay."

"With Patrick –"

"I had to." Carl said so. "I'm okay. I am. I'm just . . ."

"What?"

"I'm just tired."

"Syd. You gotta tell me what happened."

"What do you mean?" I say, playing dumb, dumb, dumb.

"With that last walker."

"I don't know."

"Two years, and I've never seen you do that. Never. So don't just shrug it off now, don't act like that wasn't out of the ordinary, 'cause we both know it was."

I should have just gone to bed early tonight.

"And you managed to put down Patrick, so why did you freak out with Andrew?"

Andrew. Yes, that's who it was, that's who it really was. He spoke with a stutter and never tied his shoes. "I didn't freak out."

"Yeah, you did."

And I won't argue because I know he's right. My fingers are still twisting together, forming whatever shapes my subconscious tells them to, leaving the rest of my mind to figure it all out. Look at the pretty shapes. A flower. A fish on a hook. A noose.

Dad smoothes my hair. Then he starts rubbing my neck and that makes a lump grow in my throat and my fingers just tie into a knot and stay like that. Dad's voice makes me ache. "When did you decide you couldn't talk to me no more?"

_Little Bit, you can always talk to me. Alright? 'Bout whatever. _That's what he said to me all that time ago, back at the CDC when I was just a kid. Before the clock started ticking and that kid made him scared. No matter how old I get, I guess I'll always end up making him scared. Making him hurt.

There's that wayward piece of fence I saw last night, the wire with the pointy end. I lock my eyes onto it. "I don't want you to know."

His hand quits massaging, just latches to my neck. "Why not?"

I can see them. I can see them now, down in the courtyard, my dad and Rick, running to the boiler room. I can see Michonne come to the gate and then, later, my father, all alone, all alone, and that's when it came, that's when it began, that's when I got so heavy inside and that's when I started going to the dark places I never knew I could fit so well into before. But I didn't belong there before.

Of course my eyes are swelling. Of course I'm shaking. "I'm sorry it had to be you."

Dad leans closer. He pushes hair from my eyes. Special gentle voice. "What?"

I turn to him. Study his face. There it is, in his eyes. He's scared. See? It's always how it ends, with him and I. But I love him so much and I know in this moment, I know beyond any doubt, that I will never forgive myself for what I've done to him. "I'm sorry it had to be you to put him down. I'm so sorry. I can't even imagine what that was like for you . . ."

"Darlin', what's that gotta do with –"

"It has everything to do with it, Dad," I say. Cry. "Everything."

He tries to hug me and I want him to but I don't deserve it and I wish he'd get that. I don't deserve it. I pull myself to a stand and stumble across the width of the catwalk, until I'm clenching the fence over there and pressing my forehead into the chain-link, where I stay until Dad's there and making me turn and making me look at him, holding my face. "Sydney, you tell me what's goin' on right now. Hear me? Right now!"

"I'm not going to tell you! Don't you get that? Don't you get that? I'm not . . ."

His rough voice melts away into one of those voices I hate for my dad to have because it reminds me that he's as human as the rest of us. "Baby, please . . ."

Do my hands push his off or do his just fall? I don't know. I just know my face is suddenly free and I'm gone about that fast, down to a cell that's too dark and that's not mine, or to find a corner or a nook as lonely as I deserve. And maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll start coughing and all of my problems will be solved.


	12. Voices and Temptations

In bed, I hear things.

"_Little Bit."_

But that's just the wind.

_"Princess . . ."_

Or someone crying in another cell, lonely and suffering.

_"C'mon, now, darlin'. . ."_

Or just my imagination. Yes. It could be just my imagination.

. . . . .

It's early, early, early morning when I stagger from the cell that's not mine into the corridor I don't know. I'm fully dressed but I forget my bow at first, have to go back and get it.

Couldn't sleep.

My vest is on. I like this vest almost as much as my dad's. It's not leather, it's made of something softer. Probably won't last as long. And there's that lovely weight on the right inside pocket. Like a friend leaning on my shoulder, whispering that it'll be alright.

The tombs are dark and wet and I creep along, my head low just because it feels right. Words and pictures try to come into my mind but I dodge them, send them packing. No thinking right now. Just doing. Doing is what will make the feelings inside of me go away.

Where will I go? Once again, I let my legs have control. This way they turn, that way, silent, silent. Deeper and deeper until we're there. The part of the tombs Michonne showed me once when I asked her when my dad wasn't around. The part where my uncle knocked her over the head and started the kidnapping scheme that ended with him dead. Light comes only from the moon breaking in through the slivers of windows near the ceiling. I sink to the floor here. No one comes here. Maybe that sound I hear is a walker snarling, maybe it's a pipe creaking. Who knows, who knows. I have my bow. Walkers? Come on. Let's go. Right here, right now. If you think you're man enough.

Dad's face on the catwalk.

My hand slips into my vest pocket, slips right out. I flip open my pocket knife. I find a ray of moonlight to let it shine in.

How hard he's working to still love me.

My fingers constrict around the knife.

This wouldn't make it any easier for him.

I press my fist against my mouth. My teeth clench like a dog's.

_"I just really wish I could kiss you right now."_

A shuddering gasp that's unlike any sound I've ever made before and I hear it when my knife smacks into the wall across from me.

Over the next few hours, I reach for that knife four times. I grab it once. I throw it back seconds later. I'm staring at it from the moment my eyes adjust to the dark, and all through the time after the sun comes. Yes, the sun comes, and I don't go shoot. I'm trapped. I'm trapped until I'm not. Until something inside of me shifts or breaks or ties itself back together and I can find my footing. When that happens, I move to my knife and pluck it from the dirty floor. I close it, hide the shiny blade that's done so much for me. And I go. Snapping my rubber band as I do.

It's disorienting, going outside when the morning's already grown and rolling. I don't like it. Feel behind. The pavilion's empty but I hear noise, non-walker noise, coming from the field. When I get to the courtyard's edge, I wrap my fingers around the chain-link, and I'll admit it, I grip too hard and let the wire dig into my skin all it wants.

Because in the field are graves. More graves than before yesterday happened. A lot more. And over there, a little ways off from the others, two dark-skinned men are still digging. I know Tyreese right away but it takes longer to place Bob. Their shovels move fast. As long as there are people, there will be graves. As long as there are graves, there will be gravediggers.

Who will dig the grave for the last person on earth?

Voices behind me. People who are still alive. I look over my shoulder. Hershel and Glenn, walking from A, going towards the pavilion. I've been in the tombs for too long and I've missed too much, that's how I feel and I can't explain why, but it makes me go after Hershel and Glenn, my Hershel and my Glenn, so they can tell me about any and all of the awful things that happened while I was in the dark. But when I reach them, they've stopped and are facing each other and muttering, and that's when Sasha comes out of C. Stumbles out. Coughing. And that makes Hershel and Glenn go quiet. Hershel tries to step up to Sasha, but she waves him away.

"Gonna see Dr. S," she pants. "I'm gonna be okay."

Might be a little more convincing if she was steadier on her feet. If she didn't grasp for anything and everything sturdy on her zigzagging path to Cell Block A.

The three of us, we're silent as she goes. But when she's gone, I ask, "Is she the only other one who's gotten sick so far?"

Glenn looks away and Hershel looks right at me. There's enough of an answer in that look.

"Gonna go check on Maggie," Glenn mumbles, and then he disappears into C. Leaving me to Hershel.

"How many others?" I ask. I don't want names. No more names.

"Too many. We're keeping them in A."

Death Row.

"Anyone else die yet?" That last word slips out but I don't think I regret it. And my question hangs Hershel up for a minute. That's okay. I'm patient.

"Karen and David . . ."

"Both of them?" I think of Ty and Bob, digging those graves. Two graves. "They both . . ." And then I'm thinking of Patrick and all of the blood on his face.

"It wasn't the illness." And Hershel tells me then, tells me how Ty found Karen and David dead, burned to crisps. Murdered. I listen silently, then nod and walk away. Some days I feel like a sponge. I can only soak in so much.

. . . . .

I go up into Tower 2. No one ever seems to keep watch from Tower 2. It doesn't have a history with me, like the catwalk does, and I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing. When I'm up there, I stand for a while and watch the tiny figures of Ty and Bob, but then I get tired of that and watch the woods. Dad said we'd go hunting yesterday. We never did. That makes me sad and so I just sit in a corner of the used-to-be-a-room and let things happen around me, let the world spin on. My hand edges towards my vest pocket once but I make it stop. I don't want to go there again, not already. It's tiring. And, to be logical, dealing with a cut would be a hassle right now. I'm not up for a hassle. Now, if I had a lighter, there wouldn't be blood . . .

But I don't have a lighter so I just let that go.

The sun says it's around ten o'clock when the trapdoor opens. "How's it look?"

Michonne. She climbs in, and I straighten my back in an attempt to make it seem like I've actually been paying attention. "Clear."

She nods and tosses me something cold and squishy. A plastic bag full of scrambled eggs. I'm reminded of a happier moment, a freer one that happened at a pond when things were different. But even that memory ends badly, if you follow it long enough. I crack open the bag and start eating the eggs like popcorn, in a way that would break my Nana's heart. But, like most everyone else, she's dead. "How'd you know I was up here?"

"Saw you."

So much for being discreet. But I guess I wasn't trying to be, really. Was I?

"You look like you had a rough night," she says. "Your dad's on edge because he can't find you."

I imagine him, tense and snappish. Probably checking the tombs. Lori's place of death, Judith's place of birth. And, of course, the boiler room. "Yeah, I should . . ." But I don't know what I _should_, so I only end up staring down at the scrambled eggs that have no appeal at all. Michonne's standing across the used-to-be room, resting on a rail. I feel her watching me, so finally I start watching her right back. We have things to discuss, anyway.

"Michonne? Are you still going to Macon?"

Her eyes narrow, gazing at me down her nose. "Why?"

"Because you should take me with you."

"You wanna pitch that to your dad or should I?"

"We don't have to pitch it to him," I blurt. "We could just go. I wouldn't slow you down. I'd help. I'm a good shot, I can track, I want the Governor _dead_, and . . ." I make myself stop, because Michonne's eyes have completely turned to slits and her mouth is just a bit open, like she can't believe I'm serious.

And it rams into me – What the hell am I doing? This isn't the loner Michonne I met all those months ago! This is the Michonne who spent weeks combing Georgia, side-by-side with _my father. _She's not going to be on _my_ side, for Christ's sake!

"Never – never mind." I zip the bag of eggs closed, stuff it in my outside vest pocket, and rise. "Forget I said anything. I'm – not thinking straight, I'm sorry."

Out the trapdoor, down the ladder. All the time thinking, for the millionth time and the millionth reason, what an idiot I am. Because what's Michonne going to do? She's going to come down from that tower and find my dad and tell him I'm trying to hitch rides to wherever the hell the Governor may be. And I can't blame her a bit.

But God . . .

It sounds good. It sounds so, so good to just go, to get out of the prison and out of the woods and away from illness and from tears. To go hunting. To do what needs to get done, what _I _need to get done.

But no. I'll stay here instead. Waiting to get sick, waiting to shrivel away, while that one-eyed son of a bitch is as free as a bird. And every bit as alive.

But then, somewhere in the back of my head, a tiny voice, a hiss of a voice: _You don't have to stay here._

Stop, Sydney. Stop.

It's in the courtyard that I see Carl. It's in the courtyard that I realize – in spite of all the talk of death and danger and Macon – I haven't thought of him, not once, since his memory talked me away from the pocket knife. A deep, new kind of shame – and for me to have _new _shame is a big deal – washes over me, and it's the hardest thing in the world not to fall apart right there when I see the can of peaches in his hand.


	13. Invited

I'll say this about the prison – our library's not too bad. Small, but better than the three or four books I used to lug around with me when we were always on the run. And our library, it's kept me distracted during a lot of the times I really needed to be distracted, times like now, when I can't look my boyfriend in the eye because he deserves so much better, when death hangs in the air, when I'm a shitty daughter and maybe a little or maybe a lot crazy. Times like that. And, when there's not a council meeting or Storytime, the library's usually empty, noiseless, isolated. Perfect for me.

So, I escape down there. I have a mental list of books to read next, so I already know where to find _Lord of the Flies, _and I get it and sit at the table closest to the windows and start reading. I'm barely a page in when I hear, "Hey."

Dad. Awesome. I glance up from the book but can't give him much more than that. "Hey."

He leaves the doorway for my table. Has Michonne already talked to him? I make myself close the book, and he takes it in his hand just as I do. He squints at the cover and then flat-out scowls as he scans the back. "Whatever happened to _Harry Potter_?"

And I think back to it, lying on the carpet of my living room on Saturday mornings, smelling pancakes cooking and wishing I were a witch. That memory seems misplaced now, though, like I stole it from someone else, so I just take _Lord of the Flies _back from Dad and let it rest safely under my palm. Dad grabs the nearest chair and swings it around so he can sit on it backwards. He and my uncle have always done that. I used to do it too but my mother made me stop. "Where were you this mornin'?"

"Tombs." I hook my finger under the corner of the book and pull up, so all of the pages together make the same sharp _schwoop _noise cards do when you shuffle them. "And before you ask, I'm fine."

He's tapping the chair, softly and rapidly, and then, "Did you –"

"No."

Silence.

Until, "Wanna come on a run?"

I have to check his face then. It's solemn. He means it. Which makes no sense. "Where to?"

"There's a vet school, 'bout fifty miles off. Hershel thinks it might have the medicine we need."

"That's far."

"Yeah."

But things are just that desperate.

"Why're you askin' me?" I say.

"Need people. Ain't like you're helpless."

My mouth's dry. I move my tongue around a lot, enough so I can talk again, and say, "So it's really that bad? The flu?"

"Yeah, we definitely need them antibiotics –"

"That ain't what I mean. That's _not_ what I mean. I mean, it's – it's bad enough you wanna get me away from here, even though it means goin' out there?" Because this is not how my dad is, not at all. I can't remember the last time I didn't have to beg him to let me out of this place, except for hunting, and he has to do that. It's the only thing he and I have left. And the only reason he could possibly be doing this, whether he wants extra people or not, is if he thinks that what's in the prison is more dangerous than what's out. Which is a very, very scary thought. "I mean, you know I'm already exposed –"

"Yeah, I'm aware." He rubs a spot over his eyebrow. "Better safe than sorry."

I huff out a breath, almost like a chuckle. "_Safe._"

"You sayin' yes or tryin' to talk me out of it?"

"'Course I'm sayin' yes."

He nods without looking at me.

"Who else is going?"

"Michonne. Bob." Dad's hand moves over his mouth. "Maybe Tyreese. I'ma ask him."

"Think he'll be up to it now? After Karen?"

"When'd you hear 'bout that?"

"This mornin'. From Hershel."

He shrugs. "Nah, he probably won't be. But like I said, we need people." His hands tighten and loosen around the back of the chair. "Let's get somethin' straight. You do this, you come with us? You stay by me the whole time. You do everything I say, right when I say it, no questions asked, no arguments."

"Dad. I've done this before."

His eyes can drill into me like no one else's, not even Carl's. That's what they're doing right now. "And another thing." His voice has gone lower. "What happened yesterday in D?"

My whole body goes tense.

"You don't wanna tell me 'bout it, fine. I ain't gonna make you. But you gotta promise me it was a one-time thing. That it ain't gonna happen again."

That's not a fair thing to ask of me. It's not. Because right now, my guess is about as good as his as to whether seeing what I saw was a one-time thing.

I hope it was. I really, really hope so.

Inside my right boot, I cross my big toe with the toe next to it. "I promise."

My dad visibly relaxes. His voice is normal again when he talks next. No, not normal. Softer than that. "And if you do wanna tell me 'bout it, that'd be good, too."

But of course I don't say a word to that. And soon he gets up. "Alright. We're leavin' as soon as we get the car ready. Go do anything you gotta do."

"Yeah."

He starts to leave, and suddenly I'm seeing someone in my head.

"Dad."

He looks back at me.

"Why isn't LC goin'?"

"She's busy."

"Doin' what?"

"You'd have to ask her that."

Which is, again, not fair, because he knows I won't.

. . . . .

Carl's backpack lands on the asphalt with a _thump._

"You _can't _be serious."

If someone, anyone, had bothered to mention the quarantine-the-kids-and-Hershel plan to me while I was asking around for Carl, this whole little scene might have been avoided. I might have just decided to neglect to mention the run to him, let him notice my absence in his own time, let him figure out what happened and get pissed over it and calm down all while I was gone. But nope. Nobody told me anything. So now, here we are, underneath the catwalk, in a stressful situation. As if we don't already get enough of those.

"Carl, it was my dad's call. He asked me to come."

"Well, he shouldn't have! You should be in quarantine, like the rest of us!"

"Carl, I'm already exposed –"

"So what? Hershel is, too! He's staying on a different floor than us!"

"So you want me to stay here playing checkers with Hershel when I could be out on a run, actually helping people?"

"_I _could be out on a run! _I _could be helping people!"

He's yelling. I wish he wouldn't yell. It's not like out here is all that private. "I _know _you could be, but –" And then what he just said, how he said it, sinks in. And I look at him, standing there breathing hard and clenching his fists, and things click. "Oh my God."

"What?" he snaps.

I shake my head. "I thought . . . I thought you were upset because you were worried about me. But you're not, are you? You're just pissed off that you're not going."

"That's not –"

"It's just like last year all over again," I say, and I really didn't think that through, because I don't want to remember that day any more than he does. The day I told Rick not to let Carl come to Woodbury, the day I went to Woodbury with the grownups and Carl was left behind, the abandoned half.

Carl's face is hard. His face doesn't get like that, not with me, not very often. "If you wanna go, go."

Well, then.

I throw my arms out. "I'm goin'!" And I turn around, and I do it, I go.

But he calls after me, "You know, you suck at being a girlfriend!"

And that's like dropping something, a tiny little bomb, into my stomach and letting it blow up and hurt in every way a person can hurt inside, but before the fire of it goes out I whirl and shout "So break up with me!" and spin right back around and keep going. Around the corner. Where I nearly run into my dad.

My dad. Crossbow on his back, absolutely in hearing range. My dad.

"We 'bout ready?" my mouth fumbles out.

Dad ducks his head once.

So I breeze past him, managing to get my sunglasses on my face as I go. Hiding. Damn right I'm hiding. Hell, if I had my ball cap, it would be pulled so low I'd be blind.

When Dad catches up to me, I reach both hands up behind those sunglasses and wipe my eyes before they can get too wet, and I start talking so he can't. "Tyreese comin'?"

"No."

"What car are we takin'?"

"Zach's."

"How far away is the vet school again?"

"Fifty miles."

"What –"

"Sydney, you okay?"

I shove open the gate that leads into the field. My bow is, of course, on my shoulder, and I'm gripping it so hard my fingers feel numb. "Yep. What do you think about Bob? You trust him?"

"Yeah, enough. We should talk about that."

"Bob?"

"Carl."

"No. Don't want to."

"Y'know, if you keep on not talkin' to me just 'cause you don't feel like it, pretty soon, things are gonna be pretty quiet 'tween you and me. I really hear him call you his girlfriend?"

"Oh my God, Dad – not now, please?" My voice cracks, because the only reason he called me his damn girlfriend is because he was saying I'm a bad one, and I don't want to think about that, and this is _completely not the way _I wanted _anyone _to find out, let alone Dad.

"Well, when? Gonna have to be pretty soon. Preferably before you two got a chance to be alone again."

I don't answer and I pick up the pace. My face is burning and I hate it, I hate all of this, and if we weren't already going on a run, there's not a doubt in my mind I'd be on my way out of the prison by now anyway.

I get to the front gate, or, really, the little purgatory of a space between the gate that lets us out and the one that lets us in. Zach's car is parked here. It's a cool car. Fast and dark. Carl likes it. Bob's here already, resting against the front door. "Hey, Sydney."

"Hi," I say back, as friendly as I can, and I circle around the car and pretend to be interested in the headlights. Bob asks Dad if he's checked the car over, Dad says yep and everything's fine. Dad knows cars. He and my uncle used to work on the truck, or the bike, when I was there on Dad's weekends. They taught me some stuff. I'm not sure I remember much of it. I remember wanting to impress them, though.

Then I'm hearing Dad say _'Sup _and someone answering, "You still got room for one more?"

I look up. It's Tyreese, but I almost jump back, because his face doesn't look like his. I know exactly what happened, though, because I saw it more than a few times growing up. Someone's hit him, a lot, and now the left side of his face has a nasty bruise and his whole eye is swollen shut. But he wants to come with us?

"Hell yeah," Dad says, because we need people.

"Good. Just gotta get my gear." And then Ty's gone again. But he'll be back and then we'll all be gone.

I move over to Dad. "What happened to him?"

"Don't worry 'bout it."

I raise my eyebrows, and no matter what just happened with me and Carl, something inside of me sparks and I have to say, "Y'know, if you keep not talkin' to me because you don't feel like it, pretty soon –"

"Girl, we ain't even in the car, and you already got me regrettin' bringin' you along." He puts his hand on top of my head when he says this, because he's teasing. Look at that. We joked with each other. And I let his hand stay on my head for a while because it feels nice.

Still. I have a feeling it'll be a long trip. With lots of time to think about how much I suck as a girlfriend.


	14. Claustrophobic

Dad drives and Michonne rides shotgun, nobody questions that. Which leaves the backseat to Tyreese, Bob, and me. And guess who gets middle?

We go, the prison disappearing behind us like a rock dropped in the water. For a while, the car is quiet. Ty stares out the window, stock still. I'm smushed in between him and Bob, so it's not like I have the luxury of much personal space, but it's really not that that makes me feel awkward every time I steal a glance at Ty, the way I can't help but do. It's that the way he looks makes me think of Karen and that makes me sad so I can only imagine what he's feeling. Karen, she was a good person. Sweet. And I think Ty probably loved her.

But she wasn't mine, really, and neither is Ty. So I can't worry about it too much. I've got my own stuff to worry about. I quickly discover, though, that I don't want to worry about that stuff, so I pull _Lord of the Flies _from the small leather backpack I brought and try to get past the first page. I don't, though.

_"Lord of the Flies?" _says Bob, peering over my shoulder.

"Yep." I don't look up.

"One of my favorites. Pretty dark stuff, though."

"Yeah, well. What's not?"

He chuckles one of those it's-really-not-funny-but-it's-true chuckles. "Good point." His voice gets louder. "You got yourself a smart girl, here, Daryl."

"Yeah, she thinks so."

And I don't like being talked about and I don't feel like talking anymore at all, so I sink lower in the seat and read.

Except I don't read. My eyes cross the paper and jump through words and I don't absorb any of them. I wanted to distract myself, but I can't. Not from this.

Carl was right. I do suck as a girlfriend, can't say any different. In my defense, we haven't been able to so much as touch each other since five minutes after we became boyfriend-girlfriend, but really, that isn't a defense at all. I don't suck because I'm a bad kisser or my skin's too dry or anything, at least I don't think so, it's nothing physical. It's just that my head won't let Carl take front seat, not for long. Sooner or later, the past comes and shoves Carl into the back of my mind, and it's not fair. It's not how I want it. But I can't make it stop.

I told him to break up with me. Maybe he should. No, I know he should.

"Hey. I know you weren't runnin' off."

That's Dad, and he's not talking to me, he's speaking too low, but I tune in anyway because whatever he's talking about has to be better than what I'm thinking about.

"Thing is, that trail went cold."

It takes me a second to understand, but when I do, my back goes rigid and my fingers stiffen against the book. I slide my eyes up without my head moving an inch. Dad glances at Michonne, one hand on the wheel, one in a loose fist by his face.

"You know that, right?"

He's said this to me a dozen times. It never gets easier to hear. Has he really never said it to Michonne? He must have. It must not get easier for her, either. Or just not make enough sense. No, it doesn't make nearly enough sense.

"If it was any different, I'd be right out there with ya."

Here, Michonne finally looks at Dad, but that's all she does. And I realize in this moment that Michonne is my friend. She is my friend, and this is one of the reasons why. She understands what my dad doesn't. She understands that the Governor needs to be found, whether he's findable or not. It just has to happen.

Michonne faces the road again and I guess my dad decides to drop it. I know he must know I'm listening. Was all that talk supposed to be for me, too? Well, if it was, it doesn't matter. One more speech sure as hell won't change my mind.

He starts messing with the radio, Dad. Nothing but static, of course, and it's familiar, because it's kind of like being back in his old truck. The radio only picked up so many stations on so many days, and most of those stations sucked. That's why it's also familiar when Dad asks Michonne to hand him one of Zach's CDs.

"_Hand me a CD, Syd. Nah, not that, what the hell is that doin' in here? Give me somethin' good. Thatta girl."_

They were my uncle's CDs, mostly. Motörhead, Led Zeppelin. AC/DC.

Anyway, Michonne goes for the CD's, and Dad keeps messing with the radio dial, and static keeps filling up the car.

And then, through all the crackling – _"Sanctuary."_

At first, naturally, I think I imagined it – wouldn't be too much of a stretch – but my dad leans forward and Michonne's shoulders turn to stone and Bob asks, "Is that a voice?"

"Shh!" says Dad. And Bob goes quiet, we all do, while Dad tries to pin it, the voice – it was a voice, I know it – pin the voice down. The number by the dial bounces between 96.9 and 97.1.

_". . . survive . . ." _I catch once, and I raise my eyes to my dad but get distracted on the way by what I see through the windshield.

"Dad."

_"Shh!"_

_ "Dad!"_

His head whips up but it's too late. He twists the wheel but there's no stopping it, we hit the walker in the road. I shove myself back in my seat and do my best to stay there as we hit a second, a third, and I close my eyes that time. I've never been in any sort of car wreck before, ever, and I swear, I'd rather be out fighting walkers, least I've got some control there. I feel and hear the car go faster, but it stops just as soon, the brakes squealing. I make myself look then, and it's in time to see the walkers coming for us, coming from all around. Hands slam into the windows, faces press against them, whole bodies ram into the car. Moaning. Growls.

_Claustrophobic, _I heard someone say a long time ago. My dad told me it meant you don't like being in small spaces, but I've never really understood that until now.

Dad's twisted in his seat. "Grab somethin'!" he yells, and I don't have anything to grab, but Bob's arm goes across my upper body and pins me to the seat as Dad makes the car roar and hurtle backwards. Even with Bob's arm, I'm tossed around, we all are, but we lose the walkers. We do crash into some, but that's way better than being buried under a pile, and I'm starting to at least prepare myself for tasting freedom when the car stops fast enough that my head bangs into the seat. I don't understand, I don't, but then it occurs to me that Bob and Tyreese and me all seem to be a little higher than Dad and Michonne, and that means the car's tilted and if the car's tilted there must be something under the tires –

"Go to the left!" shouts Michonne. Dad tries, I think, the engine goes hard, but we don't move. Bad sounds from outside, bad, bad sounds, and we're being closed in on again.

"It's jammed up!" says Dad. Then something switches in him, the air changes, and orders are being given out. I try to listen, I watch his face, I have to hear –

". . . a run for the gaps right there!" he says. "Make a run for the woods, you don't stop for nothin', you hear me? Bob! You get her there!"

He doesn't mean Michonne.

Two weapons are at my feet. Both of them involve arrows. Like always, my body, my good, good body, it knows what to do even when the real me doesn't, so my arm slides down and grasps my bow. My hand collides with Dad's on the way. Then here's my bow, and my quiver's already over my shoulder and of course my release is on my wrist and I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm –

_"Now!" _says Dad. He rams open the sunroof and goes through there. Michonne goes out her door. Bob's not moving yet, why is he not moving yet? He's watching out the window, his hand is on the handle. There are walkers but we can kill them, I can, we have to go, don't we? Isn't that what Dad said? Maybe –

Walkers fall outside, arrows, a sword, and Bob's seatbelt hits me in the face and then there's a rush of air and I'm yanked out there. Blood on the door, hand against my leg, different hand on my arm. Panting, not from me, not just from me. And there's a walker. It goes down and the arrow in its head is mine. I'm moving, I'm working, Bob has a gun out now and he shoots, and I start to get my arrow back but there's another walker and another and another and more and more and I realize that this is a huge, huge herd and I realize that there is no time to get arrows and I can't waste arrows and so that's how my revolver ends up in my hand. I'm not at my best with a gun but I can manage when I'm this close. And I _am _close, _they're_ close, the walkers. They are. _BAM. _Where's my dad? _BAM._ Bob tugs me, tugs me away from the car, and we're sort of back-to-back and I can't see my dad, can't see Michonne, but there are the woods right there and the gaps my dad must have been talking about, didn't he say something about gaps? We're not moving fast enough, Bob, we're not – _BAM_, but I miss, _BAM _again – and Bob's screaming.

"Ty! _Ty!"_

I whip around and see him still in the car, Tyreese, still in the car with all the walkers around him.

_BAM. _Only one bullet left – I put my gun in my left hand, get my Buck knife out, but when you're my height it's tricky, you have to wait until the walker is actually bending down to bite –

Ty's out of the car now. He's out, he's swinging something up and down, a hammer or something, and Bob's pulling me again, pulling me somewhere, we're finally moving fast enough and there are so many walkers, _so many, _and Bob shoves one of them out of the way but there's one right by me, _right by me, _and I'm raising my Buck knife, I am, but then an arrow goes through its head and my Dad and his crossbow and Michonne and her sword and the woods with the gaps are in front of me. Dad gets a hand on my arm and gets me behind him. I can still see all the walkers, though, all the walkers still going for the car. No, for Ty. Ty's still there, still bringing the hammer up and down without pause, but I can barely see any other part of him. So many walkers. More than I've ever seen together before. And Ty's shouting. And some other walkers are making their way to us, still.

I'm being moved. "C'mon –"

Which means it's hopeless and there's no more Ty.

Dad keeps a hold on me, for a little while, as we go into the woods, but then he has to let go, because it's not done, it's not over. Here, in the kind of place that has always been my favorite, there are still walkers. Not as many, though. So I put away my revolver, my knife, and get my bow in my hands and get it loaded and start shooting. Shoot, retrieve. Like a machine. When there are walkers around, you have to become a machine. You can't worry about the men you leave behind.

Dad said to stay by him, always, so I do. And I follow him through the woods a ways, hoping he knows where he's going, but he does, he has to, he's Dad. He has a plan. I catch glimpses of Bob and Michonne, but mostly, for a while, it's just Dad and me and walkers in the green. Arrows and blood. We'll never run out of blood.

Then there's a clearing, a clearing of trees and of walkers, a wonderful break, but we don't stop, we keep running. Michonne, Bob, Dad, me, all here, all running, until we're almost back in the woods, and then Dad's gone from my side. I spin around, he says _Hold up_, he loads an arrow into his crossbow. He's moving towards right where we just came from, ready to shoot, and Michonne and Bob follow. I edge around Bob and watch, watch as walkers emerge from the thick, two of them, chasing after us like dogs. Dad lifts the crossbow. Then one walker falls and Tyreese appears behind it. Tyreese falls, too, but just to his knees. He's here. He's not dead. All those walkers, like bees on a hive, but he's not dead.

Michonne kills the other walker. Dad gets to Tyreese, says _C'mon_, and Tyreese doesn't look ready to go anywhere but he does. He gets up, with Dad's help, with Bob's help, and more walkers start to come, I can hear them, our soundtrack, and we go. We run. Like always.

**A.N.: New sort-of story called "Scenes with LC" is now posted. **


	15. Knew Me Always

The night is restless, fast, too dark and tense. The light comes with the morning, like always, but that's the only thing that really changes.

"Yo! Ty!" Dad is calling to Tyreese a half-hour past sunrise. Ty, he's below this bridge we've found and on the stream's shore, wringing the gore from his shirt. "C'mon, let's go. _Vámanos_."

I grip the bridge's railing with both hands, eyeing Ty as he eyes my father, for just a moment, before going back to his wringing. The night was rough on all of us, but I get the feeling it was roughest on Ty. His eye isn't as swollen, but the dark bags underneath it and the other one sort of cancel out any progress the rest of his face made. And the permanent grimace doesn't help, doesn't suit him.

Dad says nothing else to Ty and taps my head as he and Michonne pass. There's a town a little ways south, and we're going to try there for a car, now that we have the light on our side. Because we will need one, a new car, if we want to make it to the vet school before I'm twenty. Before a lot of people start coughing too much. I shrug my backpack onto my shoulders, readjust my bow, start to go after Dad and Michonne. But my ears get caught on Bob's voice. He's still in the middle of that little wooden bridge.

"Ty!" is what he says. "Should be a town a few miles south . . ."

Over the mumblings of the stream comes Ty's strangled voice: "We lost the whole night. My sister . . . LC . . . Everybody else . . . They're probably dead."

And then Bob says other words that don't make sense, because all I'm hearing is _LC _and _probably dead._ And after I turn to where my dad just walked off and find him standing there, looking right at me with his mouth in a line, I know I'm hearing right.

. . . . .

I had a nightmare about her last night, LC. In real life, my dad told me I could keep watch with him if I really wanted to, but being by a campfire – however small – and by Dad's side had the sleepy sort of effect it's always had on me, and when I woke up, I was curled into him with his arm around me, like the old days. But in between that, there was the nightmare.

Kind of like that dream with my uncle and the beer can of blood, this dream began with a memory. The one where my uncle hauled me out of my house while Dad and the perfectly healthy lying bitch I then called Mom said their goodbyes. Only this time, this time when my uncle reached the porch, there were no walkers outside. Just a man with white gauze over his eye and a drop of blood rolling down his face like a tear. My uncle blew right past him, to my father's truck, but when I twisted myself to look behind us I saw my mother coming out of the house, grinning through her tears, and the gun she'd been holding to her head dropped to the ground. Because she had been saved from herself. Hallelujah. She had the opportunity to find a second chance with her daughter, with her ex-husband, if she only knew where to look.

How ironic it is for her to get sick now, after finding that second chance.

Ironic, yeah. But wrong? Terrible?

Don't know. I honestly, honestly couldn't say.

. . . . .

Walking on this little dirt path we've found, I stay a few paces behind Dad and Michonne, a few ahead of Ty and Bob. Dad keeps glancing back at me. He'd do it anyway, but there's something different in his gaze, different than what's usually there, the one time I make the mistake of letting my own eyes snag on his. He's watching, waiting, for the reaction, I know it. After all, LC's got the flu. And like Ty said, she could be dead by now. And my dad kept it all from me.

He thinks I'll be angry. Thinks I'll want to snap at him for it. But fact is, I don't. Why should I care if LC's sick? Lots of people are sick. Lots of people may die. Or already have.

So I avoid my dad's eyes, but not because I want to hide my feelings until I find the right place and time for me to blow up at him, the way he might think I'm planning, since that what I'm good at doing. No, I avoid my dad's eyes because I don't like him acting like he knows all about me. He doesn't.

On we walk, the morning getting older, Dad and Michonne whispering, Bob and Ty mostly silent. At one point, Dad stops, kneels down, picks up a rock.

"Is that jasper?" asks Michonne as Dad rubs the stone clean. He says yes, she says it brings out his eyes, but she grins after that, she's joking around. It's still a little strange to see her joking around, even though you'd think I'd be used to it by now. It's a good thing, though, I think. Dad says Ms. Richards went into Cell Block A right before we left and asked Dad to see if he could find any jasper. She wants to use it for Mr. Richard's marker.

I liked Mr. Richard. He had the kind of laugh that makes everybody else laugh, and that was a good thing to have around. And I like Ms. Richards. But if she went into A . . .

"You know all of them back there?" Michonne asks Dad as he stands. He tosses the rock from palm to palm and doesn't look at her when he answers.

"Stay in one place more'n a coupla hours, you'd be surprised what you pick up."

He keeps on walking after that, but Michonne is still for a few seconds. I'm still with her, remembering the man with the bandaged eye and _snap-click_ing my trigger release. When Michonne starts moving again, I go, too, but by that time I've rescued my sunglasses from my backpack and put them on my face, where they can do what they can to keep me safe.

It's a quiet hour and lots and lots of looks later when Dad finally decides to bring it up himself, the LC thing. He and me, we somehow drifted to the back of the group. Actually, no, it was just me, because I like being a little behind, a little outside of the group, because it's almost like you're hiding, in a way, from everyone else. But Dad, he followed me back here this time. And now, as he walks backwards and scans the road – we're on a road now, a real one with asphalt – he speaks to me in a low voice, the one he's always used for this kind of stuff, this kind of stuff like the few times in my life he's wanted to tell me sorry. "'Bout LC?" he begins.

I just walk.

"I'd 'bout decided to tell you. I's just waitin' for the right time."

"It's not a big deal."

He's started walking right again, but he's looking sideways at me. "You sure?"

"You didn't need to tell me when any of the others got sick. You didn't need to tell me about her."

He sighs. "Syd, I just didn't want to make you think you had to –"

"I wouldn't have had to do nothin'. I don't owe her sh – nothin'. Anything." A building's appeared up ahead, a plain-looking building made of tin and huge white bricks, and I very much want to reach that building and find a good hiding spot and stay there until Dad forgets LC's name, the real one and the fake one.

"No, you're right, you don't," Dad says. Then only our footsteps, the footsteps of all five of us, hitting with different patterns and different sounds to blend together in the weirdest sort of music. "But I shoulda given you the choice."

"It don't matter. It doesn't. She doesn't."

And he drops it. Took him long enough, but he drops it. And I never plan on picking it up.

We reach that building I want to hide in a minute later. A tree's fallen, leaves coat the walls, but I can still see enough to see a garage door and a tin red sign that advertises a tire sale. We near the place wordlessly, press in on it wordlessly, until Bob's no longer wordless. He's saying, "See somethin'?" and I look and see my dad studying a patch of brush.

"I don't know, maybe." He starts pulling at the brush, hard, scowling a little, and there's that ripping-plant sound and something very un-plantlike, hard and smooth and even a little shiny, is revealed. I move closer, and it's a car, a car hidden away in the shrubs like the secret treasure it is.

My dad makes his way to one of the doors and slides in while the rest of us finish peeling the weeds off the car, which grows from a rounded nose to a full-body van. My dad, he knows how to hotwire a car, he did even before the walkers. I've never asked why. But before long, he emerges, his face dark. "We gotta find us a new battery," he says as he slams the door. He's right next to a dusty window of the garage then – that's what Michonne called it, a garage – and he spits on his hand and starts to wipe it off, look through, but two hands slam into the window from the other side as soon as Dad's palm makes contact. He jerks away. "Got some friends inside. C'mon."

I watch the walker hands for a moment, though. Pressed against the window like that, they look just like my hands might.

"Syd, c'mon."

So I follow, I follow Dad and all of them around the garage, to where the worst of the leaf blanket is. Can't even see what's behind, really. Dad says we have to clear a path, and he and the others start hacking at the brush, pulling and yanking and peeling. Me, I don't have a sword or a machete or – and I hate to admit it – even much muscle, compared to the grownups, so I stand a few feet off, pacing back and forth and watching the distance, an arrow ready. The cutting noises behind me remind me, at first, of cleaning kills, but then someone starts really _hacking, _grunting with every hit they make. And of course it's Tyreese. Of course it is.

"Man, go easy," Dad says. "Don't know what we're dealin' with."

But it doesn't sound to me like Tyreese starts to go easy. And a second later, when there's an out-of-place rattle of a noise, I have to look over my shoulder, and I do that in time to see Tyreese throwing something on the ground, something too red to come from nature. I edge closer. Wires. Out of the green, wires.

And then, just as Tyreese raises his arm to start chopping again, there's a snarl from my right and I look over and a dead arm connects my dad, now writhing, to the hell I'm sure exists behind the brush. The scream born from deep inside of me dies in my throat as I pull back my bowstring and aim in on that arm, but a millisecond before I pull the trigger Michonne's sword flashes and the dead limb is on the ground and my dad is moving back, free, going for his knife.

More snarls, though, more – a whole dead person, not just an arm, is in front of Bob, Bob's fighting it, fighting it back, but it's stumbling out of the weeds and grappling with him, and Bob's making these gasping noises – and Ty, Ty has one, half of it's still hidden but half of it is coming out –

Michonne is closer to Bob by the time I take it all in, so when I aim my arrow, I aim it at the walker on Ty, or I at least try to. But something's wrong. The walker moves forwards, backwards, forwards and backwards, with Ty's hands – Ty's hands clamped to its wrists. Ty . . . he's holding the walker. He could just let it go and kill it, but no. He's holding it, keeping it prisoner. Fighting.

"Ty! Let it go!" I say, yell, still trying for a shot, but Ty doesn't hear or doesn't listen.

To my right, Dad knifes a walker. To my left, Michonne beheads the one on Bob. Me, I keep jerking my bow around until I just have to lower it, because that walker's not about to be still enough, not about to be far enough away from Ty for me to get it. What the hell is Ty doing? My dad barks his name. Michonne's voice is softer but not really nicer when she says _Let him go. _And next thing, Ty's on his back, and the walker's on top of him, snapping, and it's _our _walker, Carl, it's _our _walker, the walker without a shirt and with lips all rotted off, the walker we found in the swamps, who got out of the mud because of us – I stumble back, it's on Dale, no, not Dale, because he sounds like Papaw and he fought for Randall like I did and, and, we have such good talks and as Dad pulls the walker off of Dale, my Dale, and shoves that walker with its bare chest and teeth to the side, I stay like this, half-hunched and staring at the head of the walker from the swamp while it tries to find its footing again, it's all shaky and loud, and Dale's moaning in the most horrible way and he's bread, he rips open like bread, Carl, what have we done? And Dad calls my name, shouts it, but he doesn't get it, he doesn't get how it's all my fault, mine and Carl's, but mostly mine –

_BAM _and the walker without a shirt is still and T-Dog's over him, but no, no, no, it's Bob, Bob the army medic, who I know from the prison, the prison Dale never saw. Dale died a long time ago, and so did that walker, Carl's and my walker. Dead. Gone. Past. That is the past.

Today, I am on an abandoned road far from the burnt-out piece of land where Maggie and Beth rode horses and Hershel raised cattle and Dale was torn up because I freed a walker and then fought it too late. Today, I am next to a half-hidden garage with three people who can't say they knew me when and one who can say he knew me always. And as Ty – uninjured Ty – gets to his feet, and the walker I've never seen before lies absolutely still, the one who can say he knew me always comes up to me in a way I know is bad, and he rips the sunglasses from my nose and sends them on a bullet's path into the brush. I hear the crack.

"What happened to _I promise it won't happen again?"_ goes Dad. He probably shouldn't be that loud. But Bob already shot our – the walker. The walker, it looked so – I _saw _it, I saw it, I swear – didn't I?

"I'm sorry," I whisper, because no, I didn't see that walker, the proof that I didn't is right here, dead on the ground.

"I told you to take the shot! If it'd been just you and me, what woulda happened, huh? You'da just let the walker come straight for you, like back in D?"

Ty's watching me. Ty. He looks nothing like Dale, nothing, and he's watching me with confused, worried, mad, living eyes.

"I'm – I'm sorry."

"You ain't gonna be happy till you're dead, are you? You ain't gonna –"

"Daryl!" says a woman, says Michonne, and Dad goes quiet almost at the same time my bow collides with the earth beneath my hand, the earth, where blood soaks in so nicely. Ty. Not Dale. This walker. Not that one. Me. Me. My head.

"I'm sorry," I choke out, and I run, just like I did on the farm that day, from the walker in the swamps, towards Dale dying. If there's one thing I'm still good at, it's running. Running and causing trouble. Running and putting people in danger. Running and getting people dead. So I run straight to that car we just found and dive into it and burrow into the floorboard of the front seat and squeeze my eyes shut so hard they ache, just like the rest of me, my brain most of all. No. Heart wins. Heart wins but it will always wind up losing the most.


	16. Lined Up

It's not like I forgot about Dale. It's just that the fact that I got him killed somehow slipped into a corner of my mind and hid there, gathering dust and waiting, until it saw the perfect chance to jump out at me, and with a bang, too. Michonne, Ty, Bob. Dad. They all saw me. They all know. And Dad –

The car door hasn't been closed a minute when it opens again and he's there, seeing me on the floorboard. I like it here. I fit nicely here.

He screamed for me to run that night, Dale. I was ten and had never touched a bow. Never killed a walker. So, as he was being ripped apart, Dale screamed for me to run.

Dad doesn't get in the car, just sort of hangs on the doorway, leaning in.

I killed that walker and never stopped killing walkers. Never stopped killing.

"Yellin' at you like that," Dad says. He's not yelling anymore. "It ain't 'cause I'm mad at you for . . . whatever this is. I know it ain't your fault."

Just like Dale wasn't my fault. That's what Dad told me on Hershel's porch. _It ain't . . . it ain't._

"Problem comes up when you won't talk to me about it."

But we threw those rocks, Carl and me, and he didn't know better and I did . . .

"But you're gonna have to. We gotta, Sydney, not talkin' 'bout it ain't an option no more."

This about me, Dale, what? All of it, Dad, all of it, it's about all of it and me.

"But we don't got time right now. Right now, we gotta get to them meds."

I bet he has his lighter somewhere on him.

"That's what we gotta do . . . After that, we haul ass back to the prison, get our people fixed up, then work all this out. Get _you _fixed up. You make it till then?"

My mouth moves faster than my head can. "Probably shouldn't take my word on it again."

"Sydney . . ."

What? He shouldn't. Already blew that once, didn't I? Dad, he can't trust me, doesn't he know? He should have learned that ten times over by now.

"Come help Bob and me find a new battery."

"No. I'll just get one of you killed."

"Stop it. I'll keep my eye on ya."

"Exactly. You'll be so worried about me that you'll end up –"

"I can take care of myself, missy." He sticks his hand out to me. "Now c'mon . . . _C'mon_."

So I take his hand and let him do all the work pulling me out of the nice space. As soon as I'm steady on the ground, though, I shake him off without a word, without a look. I go to the front of the garage, even though my body tightens with every step. The other three are here, of course, they all must see me, but I don't look any of them in the eye, not right away. First thing I do is go to the walker that was on Ty. Its face is blown apart but it definitely has on a shirt.

If my mind can turn things into other things, things completely different, exactly what else can it do? What else will it do?

"Hey." Michonne's moved up to me. Her arm's out and my bow is in her hand. "You dropped this."

. . . . .

My dad goes into the garage first, but it's not just a garage, it's some sort of stop. Was, I mean. There are metal shelves up everywhere, with those thin sticks jutting out of them for things to hang on. Place has never been raided too bad . . . might look more like the old world than anything I've seen in a long time.

"C'mon," Dad says when he's a few steps in, even though I'm already on his heels. Bob's behind me, I hear him start to move in, too. Dad has his crossbow up, his flashlight up a little more, and I look where the flashlight points. Yes, lots of stuff still on the shelves. Tools, mostly. Car stuff. Dad makes his way to the back of the room, through a doorway, and lowers the crossbow after just a second. This room doesn't have shopping shelves, just ones for working on, and for storing things. It's dirty in the ground-in way that makes me think it was dirty even before.

"Here we go." Dad puts the flashlight in his mouth, takes a big black block from a row of other blocks and puts it on a table, where he can see it better. He uses his knife to pop open these little lid-like things on top of the block, which I guess must be the battery. He studies it, and I think Bob studies it, too, because before long Bob says, "Cells look pretty dry."

I don't know what that means.

"Little distilled water'll clear that right up." Dad picks up the battery and leads the way out.

And I don't know why distilled water should do anything. What was I doing, all those Friday afternoons when Dad and my uncle would work on the truck?

Playing with Buck. Asking Dad to take me out to shoot. But my uncle . . . my uncle, I never asked him to do anything different than what he was doing. I knew he wouldn't. So if I wanted him I'd ask about the truck, or the motorcycle, or whatever. He'd act annoyed but he'd tell me what I wanted to know, then go into talking about other stuff, then the day'd be gone and he'd gripe that I kept him from getting any real work done.

He had to have talked to me about batteries. About how an engine works. I should remember more. Why don't I remember more?

Oh, but I remember plenty. Just not enough of the good things. All my memories, they're ghosts in haunted houses.

Out in the main part of the garage/shop, among the shopping shelves again, I slow as Dad slows, follow his flashlight to a spot on the cement floor even dirtier than the other spots. It's stained red, yellow, and brown, and it makes me queasy right away.

"That's puke," says Dad.

"That's disgusting," I say back.

On moves his flashlight, over to a blue jug right next to the big stain. _Antifreeze Coolant, _it reads.

"Those walkers in the vines?" Dad says. "Took themselves out. Holdin' hands." He eyes go back to Bob, not down to me. "Kumbaya-style." Then he keeps walking, like it's nothing.

Me, I look down at the dried puddle and the empty jug and think of a very different place, a place that was all clean metal and high-tech devices, where the big door closed and then opened and I didn't know whether or not to be happy about it. Then I think about my old house.

"That's stupid," I spit out. I feel Dad's flashlight on my face after that but then it goes away.

"Yep. It is."

I raise my eyes to the back of his head. I know how he feels on the subject.

Does he think I'd –

Then Bob's talking.

"They wanted to go out together, same as they lived – that make 'em stupid?"

Dad gets a grip on something on one of the shelves – a jug of water. Distilled, that's what he called it. Must be. "Does if they coulda gotten out."

"Everybody makes it. Till they don't. People nowadays – dominos. What they did, maybe it's about not havin' to watch 'em fall."

And he sounds so _defensive. _

I turn on my heel, stopping Bob in his tracks. "What they did was about bein' a bunch of damn _cowards_. What if they had families at home? People that loved 'em? Needed 'em?"

Bob doesn't know what to say to that, I guess. And after a minute I feel a touch on my arm. "C'mon."

And so I turn and walk forward again, and Dad gives my shoulder a squeeze, because he thinks he knows me so well and can tell when I'm hurting, but I'm not hurting, I'm just fine. Suicide's just stupid. And he . . . he can't be worried I would ever do it, right? I'd never. I never could . . . If he knows me so damn well, he oughta know that.

I step a little ahead of him, and that's why I'm the first to turn the corner, and that's why I'm the first to see the walker. It's trapped on its back, underneath debris and a ceiling fan. It has a beard that was or has gone grey and blood on its shirt. Its teeth chomp slowly, half-heartedly, like the walker just woke up, and I wonder how many friends those chomping teeth have bitten into.

Dad takes hold of my arm and pulls me off. I guess before I can have another mental breakdown or something.

. . . . .

It's not like I expect Dad to go around offering me cigarettes. But when we get outside and he breaks out a pack, gives one to Bob, and lights up with nothing but a cool look towards me, it makes me mad. He caught me smoking a few months ago, out on the catwalk after I thought everyone had gone to sleep. He just took the cigarette from my lips and put it to his own, and after a good inhale said, "You're probably too old now for a spankin'. So how 'bout we just say that if I catch you with these again, I'ma drown you in the river?"

I said it sounded fine and never touched a pack after that. But I'd smoked enough by that point that I've had a craving or two, and watching Dad and Bob puff away without any trace of guilt or need to hide irritates the hell out of me, and so as Dad pops the van's hood and gets to work and Bob watches and makes a comment or two, I go over to a pile of tires and sit down and wait for something to happen or for us to go, mostly trying to forget where I am. Michonne and Ty are in eyesight, but they're sitting down and talking and they probably don't want me there. So I stay on the tire. Waiting. Until feet appear in front of me and then the tire next to me is filled.

"Sorry if I upset you inside," Bob says, crushing the cigarette under his boot. "Just thinkin' out loud, is all."

"You didn't upset me." And then a part inside of my stomach rolls around, pokes me until I start talking again. "Killin' yourself's just stupid. You're supposed to be tough. That ain't tough."

"Guess that's fair enough." Bob clasps his hands together. "I never thanked you."

"For what?"

"For havin' my back yesterday. You think I'da made it outta there without a scratch on my own? 'Cause I don't."

I did take down four walkers. A corner of my lips twitches, only a little.

"Whatever your definition of tough is, I'm pretty sure you fit the bill."

He's just being nice. I know that. He's being nice because he feels sorry for me and he's trying to make me feel better. But . . . he's not wrong.

Damn it.

"Sorry I left that walker to you. Earlier. That was s'posed to be mine."

He thinks for a while. "Y'know, whatever happened with you," he eventually says, "You shouldn't beat yourself up about it. Things like that? Demons? They get us all."

And that's getting too deep into me and so I shoot back with, "They get you?"

Which I think might throw him off track, at least for a second, but if it did he gets back on it pretty fast. "Thing is, demons can be beat. And that's what you gotta do. You gotta beat 'em. And with you bein' as tough as you are?" He shakes his head. "I don't see it bein' a problem for you."

He doesn't know me. He doesn't know what I've done or seen, in real life and in my head. But Bob – his eyes are all wide when he talks, and those eyes look right into me, and I can tell he knows what he's talking about. So maybe –

"Hey, Syd."

I jump, look, and my dad's facing us. Hood's still up, but the van, it was that close? I hadn't realized, or I'd forgot or something, but my dad, he was almost certainly in earshot, and for some reason I feel a little embarrassed to see him seeing us now. But all he says to me is, "Go get Ty and Michonne. Tell 'em we're 'bout ready."

I stand. But my eyes get pulled back to Bob before I start to walk. I give him a nod, because I think I like Bob. And even if he's wrong about me, it's nice to know that he doesn't think so. And I think he's got himself lined up right, at least, and it's nice to know that some people are still like that.


	17. Demons

The drive to the vet school is slow and tense, at least from my perspective. Can't stop thinking about that herd on the road, how we barely got away from it. But we drive through fields and woods and not much town, and the walkers are few and far between. Dad doesn't try to put in a CD again, though. Don't blame him. Don't want to jinx ourselves.

I can tell we're almost to the vet school when the buildings start to thicken, when the trees start being planted in places where someone decided they'd look pretty, not in places where the trees wanted to grow. We pull off the road when we get into the really city-like part of things, where the buildings are three, four, five stories high and the windows are more works of art than panes of glass stuck between brick. That's when we start walking, and as we do, I crane my head back to look at those buildings, and I wonder what they were for, if they had anything to do with the school. I don't know how vet schools work, but one time I went on a field trip to just a normal college, and there were dozens and dozens of buildings, big brick ones with pretty windows just like these, and those planted-for-prettiness trees everywhere. I told my dad about it later, said I liked it. He said good, because I'd go there someday, or someplace like it. And I guess I am in someplace like it now, but I know it's not what he meant.

"The building we want is just up ahead," says Ty as we pass by a worn-down broken car that I bet was pretty nice once. And we get to it, that building Ty means, and I know it right away because the entrance to it is framed by this big white arch. There are stone steps leading up to glass doors, but we don't go in that way. Dad leads us around the place until we find a side door, gray and ugly and hidden in an alley, and we go through there.

Everything gets louder inside of closed doors, closed spaces. Footsteps, breathing, words you try to whisper. So I walk – jog – like I'm hunting and hold my breath and don't say a word, none of us says a word. But there are no walkers in sight, and as we move through the building and all of its forgotten equipment and fallen posters, we don't see a one. No, we get to this room, this lab lit by windows running all down one side of it, and we still don't see a walker. But I know right away that if there'll be any medications, they'll be around here. The glass cabinets are filled with the kind of bottles you'd see at doctor's offices.

"Alright, let's make this quick," says Dad, and we do.

The lab looks a lot like a classroom, but one that would be in high school, not one that I've ever been in personally. There's even a chalkboard on the wall. But instead of desks, there're tables with sinks and what look to me like cages, cages for animals, and those same types of cages are lined up and stacked on top of one another on one side of the room. I make a point not to look in any of those cages as I go after my dad, because I figure I'm still supposed to stay by him. Guess I'm right, because he shrugs off the bag on his shoulder and gives it to me right away, and I hold the bag open while he picks a few things off of one of the lab tables and tosses them in. The others do that, too, comb through the room, no one talking, things rustling and clattering and bags shifting around as they become full. Sometimes saving people means killing walkers. Sometimes, though, maybe more times, it's about doing stuff like this.

Dad, Ty, and me, we go exploring and find a different room eventually, a room that's a little smaller than the lab and more like one big storage closet. That's where we get the non-med things that are just as important, things like IVs, things that'll actually get the medicine into our people. Needles. Hate needles. The last time I had to deal with a needle –

No. Not now.

And then that's it. It's that quick – all that time, all that trouble, and we're packed and Dad's saying _Let's roll _after barely a half-hour inside. That's good, though. We need to get back. Like Ty said, though, we already lost a whole night –

Dad leads us away from where we came in, must think it'll be faster this way. We get to this narrow hallway with no windows. The grownups' flashlights are the main source of light. Wires are falling from the ceiling, from the walls, and my eyes follow the beam coming from Dad's hand as it hits on an EXIT sign that has an arrow pointing the way Dad's already got us going. But then Dad stops by a doorway, a doorway with a door that's barely hanging on to a single hinge and that's tilted out in the hall all wrong, and I hear Dad's breathing change in a bad way, and I edge around him in time to see the walker reveal itself from behind these colorful hanging sheets, and then there's no more time to look, because right as the first growl rolls from that walker's throat we're moving, the whole group, we're moving down this hall a lot faster than we were. Right before we slip through a door at the hall's very end I check over my shoulder and see more than one of the shapes stumbling toward us. But like I said, I'm through the door right then, we're all through the door, and we should be safe.

But we've gotten to a dark place. Very dark. In the hallway, there was at least some natural light from the windows in the classrooms the hallway offered entrances into, but here, there's nothing, nothing but the flashlights. I give a jerk when a hand closes around the back of my vest, but it's only Dad, it's only Dad.

Where are we? A storage place, like where Dad and Ty and I got the equipment we needed, but not as open, too narrow. Maybe where they would store all of the broken stuff they intended to fix but just forgot about instead. Michonne, she's at the front of this line we've formed now, and Dad follows her farther into the room until a rattle comes from behind us.

"Hey! Door's busted!" comes Bob's voice, and then a white light makes him appear, his body divided by shadows the clutter is casting over him.

Dad tells Michonne or me or someone to hold up and then I'm alone in the center of the room, and I go ahead and snap my trigger release onto my bowstring, just to be safe. I move closer to Michonne while Dad and Ty and Bob bang some things around and I think block the door as best they can, then Dad's next to me again. Michonne says _There _and, yes, she's shining light onto a green _Stairwell _sign. Farther into the room, deeper – it's longer than I thought, I don't like it, I press my shoulder into Dad – and then chaos from behind me and there's a walker on Ty, then it's off Ty, and Ty beats its head into nothing and it falls. My heart's racing by that point, but it's just one walker, one walker, and Ty put it down. Not a big deal. Not at all. Keep moving. Keep going. The end of the room, finally, and double doors with a thick chain binding them together. Michonne examines the chain and then fingers come through the gap the chain allows the two doors to keep between them, and the doors shake back and forth, furious.

My dad lowers his head, trying to see through that gap. "How many?"

But Michonne says she can't tell. And then there are sounds from the other end of the hall and my stomach falls – walkers have made it through that busted door. One falls over a box, but it'll keep coming, I know it will, and look at all of the others behind him –

"We can take 'em!" shouts Ty.

"No!" Bob. "They're infected! Same as at the prison!"

That walker that fell, he's getting up, and one of the flashlights is on him, and yes, streaks are all down his face, just like with Patrick.

"We fire at 'em, get their blood on us, breathe it in . . . We didn't come all this way to get sick!"

"How do we know the ones in there aren't any different?"

"We don't," says Michonne, and she might as well have heard me speak out loud, because Ty, he means the walkers behind those chained doors, and they could be just the same as the other walkers, couldn't they? Just as infected?

That's not how I want to die, I've done too much to die that way –

"Well, it's gotta change sometime." Dad puts me behind him, in between Bob and Ty, and hands off his crossbow. There's a table or a desk or some sort of something like that right by the door, flipped over, and Dad stomps on it, wrenches it around until I hear the splintering sound of breaking wood. It's too dark to see, too dark to see a thing, but all I know is that Dad's by the gap in the doors now and he's asking _Ready? _and Ty's yelling _Do it! _and I've got my bow loaded and then the chain is broken and walkers are here, three of them, and I raise my bow and aim, I do, but there are only three walkers and one is shot and the other have been sliced through by Michonne's sword before I see an opening. Then it's clear, I think it's clear, and I hope it's clear because the other walkers are only feet away and we don't have much of a choice but to run now.

The stairwell has windows so we have real light again and I'm grateful for that. I take the stairs two at a time to keep up with Michonne, Bob and Ty behind me, Dad up front, everyone's here, everyone's okay, and we have the medicine and we're getting out and all of us and all of our people are going to be fine, just fine, LC is going to be fine –

Upstairs, another hallway, like the first one down below, with a bunch of doors leading to classrooms. Only there are walkers up here. No shortage of walkers up here. Window at the end of the hall, Dad goes there, Michonne goes there, Michonne puts down a walker, Bob and Ty, behind me, Bob and Ty take the chairs and crates and desks and trash cans that have piled up along the walls and push them, throw them, roll them into the path of the walkers coming for us, and Michonne is at the very end of the hall now and pushing at a door, but she says that we don't have an exit and Dad even kicks that door but nothing happens and then dad says we'll make one, we'll make an exit. Everything in me wants to start shooting at the walkers down the hall, getting closer and closer and moaning and clamping their disgusting teeth, but I can't waste arrows, and make an exit? What does he mean by that? Dad jumps onto the sill of that big window, but almost as soon as he does that a vicious voice says _Get down_, and Michonne covers me up and there's the sharp, awful noise of glass blowing apart but in this case it's a good thing. Ty – because of course that vicious voice was Ty, who else could create such a sound right now? – did something, threw something, and now half of that big window is gone, open, more than wide enough for all of us to get through.

"C'mon, move it!" Dad grabs Michonne's hand first, with Ty boosting her up onto the sill. "Jump on the walkway below – go, go, go – Sydney –"

I've barely taken a step to him before Ty has picked me entirely up and handed me off to my dad.

_"They're here!" _Bob shouts as fresh air hits my face.

No room, no surface straight out from the window. There's space – open space, not a lot, but it's there – and then a strip of something – a walkway, Dad called it – and Michonne's already on it, right on the edge. "Jump!" she shouts, her arms spread, and I do, can't stop to think about it, can't, and for an awful, wonderful, thrilling, terrifying moment there's nothing under my feet and I'm free and alone and then there's something real under me, surrounding me, and Michonne turns around so she can put me safely away from the edge, and we're in the middle of the walkway, and Ty's in the window and then he's here, and Dad's in the window and then he's here, and Bob's in the window and then he's here but, but he's on his stomach and his bag, it's over the edge and there are walkers down there, walkers, walkers, a ton of them, a herd –

I scream Bob's name and the grownups see, they realize what's happening to him, and they all go over to him, dropping their own bags on this walkway, this leaf-covered walkway that's as high as the trees and that I might have liked so much before, and I watch, I watch as Dad grabs onto Bob and Ty grabs onto Bob and Michonne grabs onto Ty, and Bob, Bob keeps his hold on that bag, even as all the walkers below pull at it, tug at it, because all walkers do, all they know how to do, is ruin things, destroy things, and _kill people! _The truth hits me, real enough I could hold it in my hands. They want that bag, the meds, so they can _kill even more people!_

"Bob, let it go," says Michonne.

"Let it go, man," says Ty. "Just let it go . . ."

But he won't let it go, he won't, because Bob, he gets it, he gets what the walkers want, how they just want to keep killing and killing and killing, and he's like me, he's like me, he _won't let them do it –_

"Let go of the bag, man!" my dad yells, but he doesn't get it, like he doesn't get so many things, but I get it, Bob, I get it, you hold onto that bag, you get it back from them, don't you let them kill anymore –

And then the bag is free, free from the walkers, and it's arcing through the air and landing at my feet with a sound that it shouldn't make. A hard _clank. _And it's opened. But there are no meds inside. Only one thing slides out of that bag, and it's a bottle, but it's not the little white kind. It's the big glass kind of bottle that you have to hide before your grandparents come over or they'll know things about your mother that she doesn't want them to know. The kind of bottle you never, ever want to accidentally cause to spill. I take it into my hand, this smooth bottle, and I run my other hand through the entire bag, all of it, every inch, and there's nothing. Just the one bottle. Just the one bottle, and my dad's coming over and I slowly look up at him and he looks back at me and not so slowly removes the bottle from my hand, and that's good, that's good, I don't want it, never, never, never, it's bad.

Bob's bad. And after looking into my eyes for a long time, my father turns his back to me and talks to him.

"You got no meds in your bag? Just this?"

Bob's breathing hard and he doesn't say anything but his eyes can't stay away from the bottle for too long. No, gotta make sure the bottle's alright. I know. I know.

Oh, Dad's voice. Worse, deeper, meaner, than any one he's ever used on me. "Maybe you shoulda kept walkin' that day."

That day when we found him on the road? All alone? Asked him questions? Took him home?

Then my father, my father moves his feet and pulls his arm back and the bottle will fly and shatter and be gone and Bob –

Bob says _Don't. _Bob's hand is on his pistol.

"Stop." That's me. I'm on my knees now, I'm tired. I don't sound like Sydney. My throat's too tight and swollen and my insides are too twisted and scared to let me sound like me. "Stop . . ."

Bob sees me, maybe for the first time, I know those eyes, those eyes, those eyes say sorry but they go back to the bottle – those eyes say I'm so sorry but they go back to the bottle, always back to the bottle –

My father moves up to Bob, even though Bob's hand is on the gun. I'll kill Bob, I swear to God I'll kill him if he pulls that gun. But Dad gets right up to him, right up in his face, and Bob doesn't pull the gun. The gun stays at Bob's belt until my father reaches down and takes it himself, and then he has a hold on Bob's shirt and I don't know what he's going to do and I look at the walkers, watching all of this and hoping someone will end up dead, just like them, more walkers, more, and then everyone's a walker and it's a walker's world.

Ty tells Dad to let it go. Let it go, let it go, let's all let go. Man's made his choice, says Ty. Bob's made his choice. He's chosen demons. Nothin' you can do about it, says Ty. Nothing, nothing, because some demons can't be beaten, and some people let the demons come in and rule until all those people are only slaves.

"Just gotta let it go," says Ty one more time. And below us, the walkers scream no, no, don't let it go, let the fire burn and the good times roll. It's a walker's world, it's a demon's world, so why not join in?

"I didn't wanna hurt nobody," he says, the bad one with the demons, and his voice, it's like a kid's, but kids don't have demons like that. "It was just for when it gets quiet."

When it gets quiet, the demons come out. The demons want blood. You can give it to them. You can run from them. But they'll want more. They'll find you. Always when it's quiet.

Someone's on my level. Someone's rubbing my back. "Sydney?" says Michonne. I keep looking at the walkers. They're the demons' creations, walkers. Demons have driven people to this world. They'll keep driving.

The drink sloshes around the glass and I'm in the living room and she's at it again.

My father tells him, Bob, my father tells him that if he takes a drink before we get back he'll beat him into the ground. And he means it, Bob, he does. Listen to that voice. That voice could send people running. Maybe it will.

He has demons, too, Dad. But he doesn't give them blood and he doesn't run. He's smart, he's good. Like Carl. There's that kind of people and then there's the other kind. The kind made up of those who run or give in but never fight, because the demons are too big, because the demons are too right, because the demons should win and take us down, to the walkers, to hell, because we're no better than that, we deserve nothing better than that. Yeah, demons can be beat. But some people aren't meant to beat them, aren't capable of beating them. They'll drink instead. Hurt themselves in the quiet. They'll kill people. They'll run to their deaths, go out guns blazing, but still go out on the demon's time while the demons laugh. They'll hunt down those who have done them wrong because it's all they can think of.

But one thing they will never do is let go.


	18. Heading Home

"Hey," Dad says when we're in the van. The others are outside of it, planning the route back, but he and I sit in here, him in front and me in back, his door open but the conversation not really making much of a connection to us, or at least not to me. "Sorry if I scared you back there."

He looks at the jasper he found and I feel the scars along my forearm, my hand pushing back my sleeve and then letting it fall, over and over. "You didn't."

"I know you were startin' to like him. But he ain't worth bein' sad over. Alright?"

He thinks I'll be sad. Well, I guess I am sad. But the only thing that makes me sad about Bob having the bottle is that he wanted it for the quiet and I understand that more than I should, and the only thing, really, that makes me sad about _that _is that Bob having the bottle and Bob eyeing the bottle like it was gold makes him like someone else. So if I'm like Bob I'm like that someone else, and that's the sad thing. That's the scary thing.

Up and down, goes the sleeve. I know when, how, each scar happened. Every one of them. This one here, right above where the rubber band is? It's from when I tried to teach Patrick how to play poker but had to stop because my hands started shaking too much and wouldn't stop shaking, just wouldn't. And this one, one of the last, under the inside of my elbow. Callie started crying because Max told her if she didn't leave him alone the scary one-armed man from Woodbury would come get her.

Ty's voice breaks through the silence in the van, this silence between my dad and his daughter, and it says we're taking Highway 100. Dad says he heard and I wonder how he managed that, when I was basically right where he is and I couldn't. How does he manage all of these things that I can't manage? Letting go and listening and understanding? Michonne gets in on the driver's side and she says that Dad was right, what he said before. Her voice is trembling and desperate to be set loose to run but Michonne keeps a tight hold on it as she keeps going, as she says she doesn't need to go out anymore.

And that's it, then. That's the Governor being given his pass. It was only murder, after all.

And Dad, he says _Good _and slams his door. Ty and Bob get in on either side of me and I don't look at them. Can't stop looking at Michonne. She doesn't need to go out anymore. _She doesn't need to go out anymore_, she's broken the rules, she's let it go, but what about what I need? What about the things that keep me awake at night? The demons in the quiet?

She puts the car in drive and we move. Head home, I might should say. But the prison, in my mind, doesn't look like home right now. It doesn't look safe or warm, doesn't feel like Carl and cans of peaches. It looks and feels like a prison.


End file.
